Redefining Family
by VictorianChik
Summary: At the end of the Seventh book, but before the Epilogue. After the final war, Harry has to make decisions about where he will go and who he will let into his life as he begins to reexamine his judgements about people. SPOILERS for Deathly Hallows!
1. Chapter 1 Dealing with It

AN: This is a new story, but I promise to write on others shortly. This picks up after the last chapter in the Deathly Hallows, but before the Epilogue. I know the author gave interviews about what happened to the characters, but this story only takes into account stuff that happening in the seventh book without the Epilogue. If you criticize me for other info, I will not listen because I don't care about what happens outside the books.

Oh, and I make no promises about keeping Snape where he ended in the seventh book. Just to warn you for later chapters

WARNING: Spoilers for The Deathly Hallows in this story.

Disclaimer: Do not own, make any money, or get anything besides enjoyment in writing.

Enjoy, and tell me what you think

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Harry fidgeted as he sat in his chair, his hand twitching against his robes and trying not to look at the hourglass clock for the third time in five minutes. When would it end? It felt like he had been sitting for hours – his back was stiff, his legs were nearly asleep, and his injuries hadn't completely healed yet, thank you very much!

"List of crimes begins as such," Arthur Weasley's voice, cold and clipped, rang through the room. "Conspiring with Voldemort, blackmail against the Ministry, extortion of funds from Gringotts, and recruiting of magical creatures for Death Eater support. Witnesses for the defense?"

Harry peered out to see if there was one person who might speak up. Not a person moved, so Arthur Weasley continued,

"How does the defendant plead?

Harry glanced to the man at the dock, some miserable fellow in tattered robes, sweating fearfully and glancing around in desperation.

"I was tr-tr-tricked," the man stammered, looking up at Arthur Weasley.

"Guilty or not guilty?" Mr. Weasley demanded, his eyes flashing.

Harry winced at his harsh tone. Every since Fred's death, Mr. Weasley had changed from the friendly, cheerful father to a stern judge of the Ministry on a zealous crusade to hunt down and punish every Death Eater and Dark Lord supporter on the face of the earth. He had hand-selected the jury – Augusta Longbottom, Andromeda Tonks, Amos Diggory, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mundungus Fletcher, and Harry. For the last two weeks, they had tried Death Eaters, one right after another.

Harry sneaked a look at the line of waiting defendants. The line went around the floor of the courtroom and out into the hall, a miserable queue of men, women, and teenagers guarded by fierce-looking wizards.

"Not guilty," the man on the stand claimed, still shaking.

Mr. Weasley's eyes narrowed. "If found guilty, your false plea will result in six extra months in Azkaban."

The defendant blinked, and then he looked right at Harry, fear in his eyes.

Harry looked away. He knew what it felt like to stand in this room and be tried. Not three years ago he had been the same place, with everyone gazing down at him with cold disdain and Umbridge prattling on and on. But Dumbledore had been on his side. And he had only feared he would be thrown out of school. These defendants were worried about something much worse than never returning to Hogwarts.

Arthur Weasley began reciting off another list, citing evidence that put the defendant in the right time and place to have association with Voldemort. Harry did not like listening to the evidence. It sounded so damning, but it could be circumstantial. After all, he himself had been at the same time and place with the Dark Lord, but Harry knew that Mr. Weasley wouldn't listen to such reasoning.

"The prosecution calls Mr. Harry Potter," Mr. Weasley said.

Harry jumped, but remained seated. For the first dozen times, he had gotten up to give testimony, but now he found it easier to stay seated.

"Does Mr. Potter recognize the defendant?" Mr. Weasley asked, his hard eyes on Harry.

"Er," Harry stared at the pitiful man. Harry did not recognize him, and even if he had, Harry wasn't sure he would have said so. The first day of the trials, he had identified three Death Eaters he saw the day of the last battle, fighting for Voldemort. Not even an hour later, the Death Eaters had received the Kiss from the Dementors. Worst of all, Harry had to watch the execution, standing beside Mr. Weasley and McGonagall while the condemned were lead forward. After that, Harry asked to be excused from the executions and hesitated before giving evidence that would seal the fate of the prisoners. Not that he didn't think the Death Eaters shouldn't be punished – he had willing given testimony against Goyle Sr. and not flinched when the Kiss was sentenced.

But Harry knew without a doubt that he was best on the battlefield, risking his life in the fight against evil. These bureaucratic trials, conducted without mercy, made him feel uncomfortable. It was one thing to fling curses in the heat of a battle; it was another to see people in the stand and know he was condemning them to death.

"We're waiting," Mr. Weasley prompted.

"I've never seen him before," Harry answered truthfully.

He could almost feel the disappointment in Mr. Weasley's gaze, but the man rallied,

"Very well. We will proceed with the evidence. We ask the defendant – why were you in the vicinity of the graveyard that night in question when your home is obvious twenty miles away and you have no family near the area?"

Harry glanced away as the defendant gave stuttering excuses, none of them sounding very legitimate. Mr. Weasley drilled him for the next twenty minutes until the man nearly broke down into tears. Then Mr. Weasley called for the verdict. He went down the line, Mrs. Longbottom – guilty, Mrs. Tonks – guilty, Shacklebolt – guilty, Mr. Diggory – guilty, Fletcher – guilty, Mr. Potter? Mr. Potter?

Harry gulped. He saw all of the jurors looking at him, eyes of people who had lost loved one. Mrs. Longbottom, her daughter and son-in-law. Mrs. Tonks – a daughter and son-in-law. Mr. Diggory – a son. Shacklebolt and Fletcher– a friend in Mad-Eye. Harry closed his eyes for a second before whispering,

"Guilty."

Mr. Weasley turned back to the stand, coldly triumphant. "The verdict is guilty. Sentence . . . your wand broken and six years in Azkaban."

Harry looked away again so he would not have to see the defendant's look of despair. As the days wore on, Harry wished he could attend the trials blindfolded so he never had to see the agonized expressions of the prisoners. Why couldn't the Death Eaters have all died on the battlefield? Anything other than this slow, torturous trial that went on and on and –

A loud gong sounded from above the courtroom.

Mr. Weasley frowned, but announced, "Five o'clock. Court is adjourned until nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Prisoners will go back to the cells for a meal before they are locked up again."

Mr. Weasley slammed his gavel on the table before him, the noise resounding through the room.

Harry wanted to sign in relief, but he kept his face blank as he stood and followed the other jurors out of the courtroom. Behind him, Harry could hear the struggles of the man condemned to Azkaban. The defendant was pleading for mercy, but Harry stared down at his shoes and kept walking, closing of his ears as best he could.

The other jurors wandered off, but Harry paused to take off his robes and hang them up in the private chambers reserved especially for the jurors. He turned to see Mr. Weasley watching him. The man seemed less than pleased with the clothes Harry wore under his robes – khaki pants and a blue sweater, but Mr. Weasley only said,

"How is Ron doing?"

"Oh, great," Harry replied, glad to find something he could talk freely about. "He loves his new job, and Hermione's working hard in the Auror training. We always thought she would become a teacher, you know, but she's doing really well in her –"

"Good," Mr. Weasley nodded tersely. "Tell Ron we expect him home for supper tomorrow night. Come by Floo powder."

"Oh, sure," Harry said, nodding. "But wouldn't you like to –"

But Mr. Weasley was already heading for the door, and Harry trailed off uncertainly. He never quite knew what to say to anyone anymore.

He sighed again and then sat down in one of the armchairs, draping one leg over a chair arm and sinking back into the chair carelessly. He hated sitting in that hard chair for hours. Three hours in the morning, an hour for lunch, and then four more hours of trials. Absolute torture.

Harry reached for the tray that held an assortment of chocolates and teacakes. He would like a cold glass of pumpkin juice about right then, but he settled for chomping on the sweets and twisting his neck back and forth to stretch out the cricks.

The door swung open, and McGonagall strode in, her black robes fluttering against the floor.

"Professor!" Harry said around a large piece of chocolate and tried to sit up, yanking his leg down.

Her lips almost twitched indulgently. "Mr. Potter, we are not at school," she told him crisply. "You are welcomed to lounge as long as you like. And it's no longer _professor_."

"Minister of Magic," he nodded respectfully.

"I suppose that will do," she sighed. "I was looking for Mr. Weasley. Have you seen him?"

"He just left," Harry motioned to the door where she had just entered. "Barely a minute ago. Is everything alright?"

"Good as it can be," McGonagall nodded shortly. "I'll leave you to your food, and good evening."

"Prof- Minister," Harry jumped out of his chair, "I was wondering if I could have a word?"

"Of course," she turned back to him, her expression just like the one she had worn in class when she asked him a question and he took too long to stammer out an answer.

"These trials," he shifted nervously. "I just can't – I mean, I want to do my part. But I can't keep – they just take so long – it's there anything else I could do?"

She pressed her lips together, and he knew she wasn't pleased. She had a right to feel that way. He knew he looked childish and ridiculous. She had not been Minister a month yet, and already she had a dozen people working for her and she was rebuilding the magical community and instituting new laws plus remembering those who had died for the cause. And Harry was complaining that he didn't like his part in the new regime.

"Mr. Potter, I cannot change anything," she replied, her eyes piercing right through him. "We all must do our bit. I am sorry you cannot have another job, but this one is best suited for you as you are a witness as well as a good judge of character."

A picture of Snape flashed through Harry's mind, and he wanted to deny her statement, but he stayed silent.

"You can best serve us here you are."

"Yes, Minister," he said glumly, but tried to look accepting.

"Very good. See that you continue giving the position your utmost attention." McGonagall paused, her expression softening for a moment. "I know it's hard, Harry. For all of us."

And then she swept out of the room.

With nothing left to do, Harry gathered up some more chocolate and cakes before heading down the hall down the Floo networks. He avoided the halls where he might see the prisoners dragging themselves back to their cells under the cold eyes of the guards all dressed in navy blue. The prisoners had to stand in line everyday for the trials, even though they were never able to get to more than ten or eleven defendants each day. But everyone lined up to wait, no exceptions.

Harry ducked into his network before anyone could notice him. A lot of people wanted to stop and talk to him on a regular basis, sometimes to ask his opinion, sometimes to inform him of new changes, sometimes to gossip about nothing. In the large entrance hall where Fudge's profile had once hung and the fountains had boasted statues of humans in misery, new statues had been carved. Harry had hoped they might make a collection of portraits of those who had fallen in the fight, including his parents. Instead, they had put up a twenty-foot stone carving of the last battle with all the fighters looking like they were climbing up a rounded rock. The fighters were scrambling, wincing, and stumbling. Ron's likeness was there along with Hermione, Neville, and Ginny. McGonagall was towards the top, her stone expression fierce and deadly. But at the top of the carving, in long sweeping robes with his wand brandished savagely and his face a picture of murderous rage was Harry himself.

The first time he saw the carving, Harry had stared in horror at the likeness at the top. Did his face really look like that, deadly and brutal? After that first awful viewing, he went to find Mr. Weasley and explain there must have been some mistake. Mr. Weasley confirmed that there was no mistake, and the carving was there to stay. Harry had avoided that hall ever since, preferring to take the long way around just so he didn't have to see himself and his terrifying expression.

His network flared to life, and a second later, he ducked out of the fireplace at 12 Grimmauld Place.

"Master is home!" Kreacher declared, his eyes lighting up as Harry stepped into the kitchen.

"Heloo," Harry smiled. "Sorry if I'm late. Stopped to talk to McGonagall."

"No apologies," Kreacher insisted. "Master should talk to anyone Master wishes – oh, what does Master have?"

Harry glanced down to the chocolates and teacakes he had wrapped in a napkin to take home. "Just some –"

"Oh," Kreacher shook his head, "Master will ruin his dinner. Master may have whatever he wants, but Kreacher feels that Master should not have so much sugar so close to supper –"

"They're for you," Harry quickly thrust them down the little house elf. "All for you."

Kreacher raised huge eyes up. "Oh, Master is too, too, too kind! Kreacher cannot believe the kindness of Master."

"Well, Master does what he can," Harry shrugged. He loved living with the house elf who continued to keep the house spotless and insisted on waiting on Harry hand and foot though Harry protested that he could do some things on his own. "Where's everyone?"

"Ah, Miss Hermione is the library. Mr. Ron is not home yet," Kreacher replied as he gazed down at his handful of food with delight.

Harry smiled as he walked towards the library. He found himself giving Kreacher little gifts nearly everyday. Coins that ended up in his pockets, candy he snitched regularly and got caught eating, even his ticket stubs from times he decided to ride the tube. The only time it had not been a success was when he thought Kreacher's tea cozy had gotten filthy and he handed the house elf a large shirt to make himself a new outfit. Kreacher had burst into tears and sobbed out why had Master decided to send him away. Harry had spent nearly an hour trying to console the house elf and promise him that Master would never make him leave and that the shirt was only a loan which meant Kreacher still belonged to Master, now and forever. The house elf had finally calmed down and kept the borrowed shirt as clean as he could.

Harry rapped his knuckles against the closed door. "Hermione?"

"Come in," she replied.

Harry opened up the door and stepped into what had once been a sitting room with the Black family tree on the walls. But after agreeing that Hermione could store her books there, Harry came home one day to find shelves of books and chairs and tables in the room with Hermione alphabetizing a long row of books.

"Look," she had held out her arms, "we have a library!"

Harry had been leaning towards using part of the room as a monument to Quidditch, even going as far as to buy several large posters of his favorite teams. But he had said nothing, letting her keep the room as a library. He put the Quidditch stuff in his own bedroom upstairs and had hung all the posters over his bed which Ginny said looked stupid.

Harry opened the door. "I'm home."

"Good," Hermione nodded, glancing up from her book. "Ron should be in shortly."

"I still don't understand how he got a job at Olivander's," Harry settled in a comfy armchair. "When did he have time to learn about wands?"

"Probably when he broke his," Hermione replied breezily.

"He was twelve," Harry objected. "What did he know about wands then?"

"I don't know," Hermione turned a page. When it became obvious that Harry wasn't leaving, she put her book down. "What is it?"

"Long day at the office," he replied. He raised his feet to prop them on the seat of another chair, but caught Hermione's eye and lowered them reluctantly.

"Can't even sit in my own house," Harry grumbled.

"How are the trials coming?" Hermione asked, ignoring the last bit.

"Rough," he admitted. "I never thought there were so many of them. They just keep coming – this line that never ends."

"Thanks to the last year," Hermione nodded. "People who would never have been associated with Death Eaters before joined them to keep their lives. Now, we are in charge, and those same people are charged with crimes."

"It's not right," Harry insisted. "They were just trying to protect themselves and their families. Why should they be punished?"

"Is Ron's dad still – you know?"

"He's ruthless," Harry confessed, staring down at his hands. "So cold – I never thought he would be so bad. I barely know him any longer."

"Everyone really has changed," Hermione said softly. "This past year at Hogwarts hardened everyone. Students before who were just children, nice and kind, are now bloodthirsty. I never imagined the Auror training would be so competitive. My year of Aurors will be savage when they get finished. They already know every dark spell, every curse, every way to make an enemy suffer. It's quite frightening sometimes."

"At least you got in," Harry muttered.

"Harry!" she scolded. "You will get in. They want you to be involved with the Ministry for now."

"I begged them to join the Aurors," Harry stated. "I pleaded with them, and what was their excuse?"

"Harry, it's very difficult to –"

"'You did not complete your final year at Hogwarts, Mr. Potter!' I couldn't get in because I ran to save my life. And I fought the biggest fight ever against the worst group of evil doers, but that's not as good as a year studying. So no Auror program for me. But they let you waltz right in."

Hermione reached over to squeeze his hand comfortingly. She did not point out that the omission for her entry had been due to her outstanding performance in every subject on the Auror test. Harry was grudgingly grateful for her small kindness of silence.

"Hey-ho!" Ron's voice called out from the hall. He burst into the library without knocking and raised an eyebrow when he saw Hermione and Harry. "What is this? My girlfriend groping my best friend? Traitors!"

Hermione laughed as she rose to greet Ron. She wrapped her arms around him, and he lifted her off her feet to kiss her warmly. Their kiss went on for three seconds, four, five, six . . .

Harry turned away with a heavy sigh. "And I have no one!" he gestured tragically to the empty air beside him.

With a loud suction noise, Ron pulled back from Hermione. "Don't be glum, mate. You'll see Ginny tomorrow."

"Still don't see why she couldn't live here," Harry grumbled, spinning the round globe that stood beside his chair.

"Look, mate," Ron frowned, "I might not mind you being with my sister. But you are not going to shack up with her and ruining her reputation."

"But you two –!"

"I already ruined her reputation," Ron jerked his head towards Hermione.

"Ron!" she pulled free to smack him on the arm.

"What? We lived in a tent together for months. Everyone thinks you're spoiled goods. But I still love you."

"You're horrible," Hermione announced, trying to hide her smile. "Harry, stop spinning my globe. You'll break it. Let's go to dinner and we can all discuss our day."

"Do you ever want to strangle her?" Harry asked as he and Ron followed Hermione towards the dining room.

"Yeah, but snogging makes up for it," Ron whispered back.

Harry laughed as he followed his family into the dining room where Kreacher was setting out a wonderful supper.


	2. Chapter 2  Another Work Day

Here's another chapter. I'm on a roll now. This story has been fun especially since I'm not changing any canon, but taking up where the books left off. I've been researching PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) in literature, and it shows in my writing.

Warning: Spoilers for Seventh Book.

Disclaimer: I own none of this nor make a single penny.

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Harry rounded the corner and dashed into the kitchen. "I'm late!" he told both Hermione and Ron.

Hermione was cooking a dish of eggs over the stove, but Ron was pouring coffee into three cups.

Every since they had left that blasted tent, Hermione had announced that she was not doing all the cooking in the townhouse. Harry had replied that Kreacher could do it, and she had fixed him with such a baleful look, he had immediately muttered that they could take turns. They had planned to take turns cooking breakfast and let Kreacher deal with supper. Hermione had objected until Kreacher nearly despaired at not making "Master" any meals, and then she agreed to switch off breakfasts with the boys. Ron had served blacked lumps of food his first day, so burnt no one knew what they were eating, including Ron, and Harry had tried his hand at porridge that was so undercooked they could taste the raw meal with every bite. Ron and Harry had hoped Hermione would accept that as proof that they could not cook, but she kept at them, insisting they learn to make toast at least.

After a while, it became apparent that Ron could manage hot tea and coffee without too much effort and keep it hot without burning it. Harry learned to brown toast and stir porridge at the same time. Hermione decided that breakfast would be better made as a collaborative effort rather than breakfasts of tea, then toast served two days out of three. And their arrangement work . . . except on the days Harry had to go in early.

"I'm really late," he grabbed a cup of coffee from Ron's hand.

"I called you twice," Hermione salted the eggs carefully. "I am not coming in to pull you out of bed, Harry. Ask Ron."

"Get an alarm clock," Ron told Harry before he could say anything.

"Can I have some eggs?" Harry asked as he dumped lots of sugar into his coffee.

"Yes, after you serve me the toast," Hermione looked at the toasting rack which stood bare since Harry had not been down earlier to make toast.

Ron quickly ducked into the pantry for jam, not wanting to get in the middle of any fight.

"Please?" Harry gave her his most winning smile. "Just a little food for me?"

In the corner, Kreacher rocked back and forth on his feet in agony that the master of the house should be refused food. Had Hermione not spoken to Kreacher six times about not helping Harry out all the time, the little house elf would have already had something fixed.

But Hermione did not have a heart of stone for she grabbed a piece of bread and spooned a good amount of eggs onto it. She placed it in a napkin and handed it to Harry, warning, "Tomorrow . . ."

"Tomorrow, I'll cook it all," Harry assured her though he was sure he wouldn't. "You're the best. I'll tell McGonagall that you deserve extra marks in your training."

She smiled at him, and he hurried towards the front door.

Most days Harry would have strolled to the corner to catch the bus and take the tube to work like a normal person, enjoying the early morning bustle of London. After the isolation in Little Whinging growing up and the confinement of Hogwarts, Harry found the freedom of the big city comforting. He could walk for blocks and have people pass right by him without a second look. He could blend into crowds, go see a matinee play, enjoy a street juggler on a corner of Piccadilly, and not one person would recognize him.

But this morning, he forgot all that and Apparated to the special entrance for the Death Eater jury.

He got the courtroom just as Mrs. Longbottom was walking to the jury box.

"Mr. Potter," she snapped out as she passed.

Harry stopped, wondering what he had done to anger the elderly woman.

"Psst!" someone hissed behind him.

Harry whirled to see Neville peeking around a corner.

"Harry," Neville motioned him over.

Harry hurried. "Neville, what's wrong? What are you doing hiding?"

"Got to have a word with you," Neville whispered.

"Trial's about to start," Harry said softly. "I can't be late. And why are we whispering?"

"I want to ask you a big favor," Neville replied, glancing uneasily towards the door where his grandmother had just disappeared.

"How big?" Harry asked doubtfully.

"I want to come live with you," Neville whispered.

"What!" Harry exclaimed.

"Shh!" Neville cautioned.

"You want to live with me?" Harry repeated incredulously. "At Grimmauld Place?"

"Yeah," Neville nodded.

"Is your grandmother making you leave?" Harry felt nothing but confusion.

"No, she's upset I want to leave. But honestly, Harry, I can't live there with her forever. She gets worried if I stay out past nine, even on weekends. And she won't stop talking about me to visitors, about the final battle and how I was though I barely did anything. And she keeps trying to get me to visit my – my parents and talk to them, and I'm overwhelmed with studying Herbology. What do you say? I won't take up much room, and I'm neat, and the townhouse has four bedrooms."

"Yeah," Harry said doubtfully.

"I won't be a bother," Neville promised. "I won't ever be home that much, and I can cook a little."

"You can?" Harry asked quickly.

"Nothing fancy," Neville shrugged. "Just potatoes and scones and breakfast meat and bread –"

"You're in," Harry said. "I mean, I'll have to ask Ron and Hermione, but there's no reason I can see why you can't have the last bedroom. There are just some old trunks in it – we can move those to the attics."

"It will just be for a few months," Neville promised. "And Gran will think I'm being taken care of, what with Hermione there. Gran doesn't want me to move, but she'll get used to the idea after a while."

"Oh, great," Harry sighed.

"Just don't talk to her for a bit," Neville advised. "I'll get my stuff together and be ready to move tomorrow."

Harry was halfway to the courtroom before he realized that he had not asked Ron nor Hermione.

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A miserable eight sentences later with the pleas for mercy ringing in Harry's ears, he sat down to lunch in the small room. It was uncomfortable eating with Kingsley and Mrs. Longbottom and Mrs. Tonks as Mundungus and Mr. Diggory went to eat with other friends in the Ministry. Harry wished they would talk, but he could never think of anything to say that didn't sound too flippant, _"Don't you think that last woman cried too much considering she was only getting seven months in Azkaban?_" or too serious _"Was it right to send that man's son to Azkaban considering he was only fifteen and in France when the final fight occurred?"_

So Harry stayed quiet, trying not to make a sound while he chewed his food. He brought a book sometimes and read it while he ate, trying to look nonchalant while hating that he had to spend a whole hour trapped in the room with the real adults. He didn't dare wander off because sometimes Mr. Weasley came back to discuss upcoming cases. Harry felt it was wrong to be biased against defendants they had not yet met, but he never said a word while Mr. Weasley described the crimes of the accused Death Eaters.

"How many more defendants, Shacklebolt?" Mrs. Longbottom asked, her voice sharp.

"I thought only fifty or so," Kingsley sighed. "But they rounded up sixty more over the last week, a fourth of which actually have the Mark. It will be hard to decide who was active in this war and who got the Mark over seventeen years ago and since let off being a Death Eater. All with the Mark are over thirty-five, so it's anyone's guess."

Harry felt his spirits sink a little. Hauled into court for something you did seventeen years ago? Surely some of the people didn't realize how evil Voldemort truly was, and now those people would be punished severely for the crimes of their youth?

"Good," Mrs. Longbottom nodded her approval over her lunch. "We should show everyone that justice will be served to those who follow evil. Time makes no difference – being a Death Eater now or years ago is a punishable offence."

"Is there any evidence of their involvement?" Harry spoke up, careful to look just at Kingsley. "Any proof?"

"They have the Mark," Mrs. Longbottom snapped. "What other proof do you need?"

"No, I just meant –" Harry began.

"Justice must be served," Mrs. Tonks stated. "These monsters killed my daughter and my son-in-law. They would have murdered my grandbaby if they had the chance. They deserve death."

"And my Frank and my Alice," Mrs. Longbottom said in a tight voice, the words almost hissing through her teeth in her anger. "Not even killed – but left to a fate worst than death for themselves and their child."

Harry gazed down at his sandwich miserably. His chest hurt when he thought about everyone they had lost. Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, Fred, Moody, Snape – they stretched into a line that never seemed to end, watching him with accusing eyes for not acting sooner, fighting better, finishing off Voldemort earlier.

"We're here to serve justice," Kingsley announced. "Our dead deserve justice."

Harry stood up. "I'm sorry, excuse me," he stared down at the carpet. "I have to go to the – you know."

He left without another word, leaving his lunch on the table.

The loo was empty, no one in the stalls. He put his hands on the sink and looked into the mirror, trying to breathe calmly. These moments came upon him suddenly. He would be hit with sorrow that filled his body with a deep ache, and then he would feel his eyes smart. He feared he would start crying in front of people, but so far he had managed to get himself away before that happened.

Oddly enough, when he got alone, he never cried. Instead he felt so angry, he could hardly stand to stay in his own body. He would feel rage churn inside him, and he wanted to break things like that stupid mirror and drive the broken glass into wrists. He hated them all so much, the people who had hurt him. The monsters who hurt his friends, killed people he loved, wanted him dead. He hated them all, but he didn't want to make anymore pain. He deserved pain, of course he did. It was his fault, and now more people were hurting. And if he could just bang his head against the stone wall until the pain went away –

"Hello, Harry Potter," a dreamy voice sounded behind him.

Harry let go of the sink and whirled to see Luna Lovegood standing by the door. "Luna?" he choked out.

"Don't break the mirror," she told him, tilting her head to the side. "You can cry if you need to, and if you want to scream, I can put a muffler spell on you, so you can hear your scream, but no one else can. After all, what's the use of screaming if you can't hear it? But don't break the mirror. It will make an awful mess, and there's nothing to bandage with in here, and you might get blood all over your clothes, and it doesn't wash out easily."

Harry leaned against the wall and sank down. "How did you know I was thinking that?"

"You are very easy to understand," Luna walked over to the mirror and ran a hand over her long blond hair. "You are hurting because war hurts people. If it didn't hurt anyone, it wouldn't be war. It would be like a picnic where everyone gathers together, but no one dies, unless there are bees and someone is allergic and gets stung."

"I think I'm losing my mind," Harry grasped the back of his neck with his hands, pulling his arms tight against him. "Everything's all right, and then I'm mad with anger. And not like when I was fifteen and I was yelling at everyone. This hurts so bad I can't even say anything."

"Pain is outside words," Luna took a paper towel from the dispenser and ran it under the water. "Pain is like screaming – words are not right, and they make no sense with pain or screaming."

"Does it ever get any better?" Harry raised his aching eyes up to her.

"Do you want it to get better?" she tiled her head at him again.

"Yes," he choked out.

"Then it will," she decided. "And you will be sad it doesn't hurt as bad, but then that will change as well. Our bodies and minds are designed to remember the good times and minimize the bad times. Did it hurt when you broke your arm and then Madame Pomphrey had to set it?"

"Yeah," Harry wasn't sure where she was going.

"Ginny told me about it," Luna continued. "It hurt a lot, but did you stop flying or playing Quidditch?"

"No, of course not."

"Because the pleasure overrode the pain," Luna smiled gently. "And eventually you will remember only good things about those that passed on, and you can think about them without hurting."

He looked up at her, and he felt the pressure ease up off his chest.

"You are so kind, Harry Potter," Luna said as if it were the first time she noticed. "I would like to kiss you now, but that would cause Ginny pain. So I will give you this," she offered him the wet napkin, "and you can let the water cool your eyes."

"Thanks," he muttered gruffly.

"And I must be off," Luna announced. "This is the men's room, after all. And I only have the afternoon to look for a place to live."

"You don't have anywhere to live?" Harry straightened.

"No, my father is dead," she sighed. "He did not live after what happened to him. But you must not blame yourself for that because my father was weak not to help you. But the house is gone, and I will see if anyone wants me to stay with them and be a housemaid."

"Come live with us," Harry blurted out.

"What?" Luna gave a short laugh.

"Yeah, we got room," Harry said. "Come stay with us, even just for a week or two."

Luna smiled, her entire face brightening. "The woman on the street said it looked like rain today, but I won't feel it at all . . ."

She turned and left the room, her feet barely seeming to touch the floor.

Harry went to the mirror and took another look at himself. He looked fine – his eyes were too red, and though his cheeks were pale, no one would notice anything out of the ordinary. He trudged towards the courtroom, trying not to think of the hours of trials ahead of him.

------

"I'm home," Harry timidly shut his head in the library. Hermione and Ron were seated on the loveseat, looking at a book together. Hermione seemed to be reading while Ron was playing with the ends of her hairs and whispering in her ear. She looked away from the book to smile indulgently at Ron, and she seemed about to kiss him when Harry stepped into the library.

"Welcome back," Hermione said, pulled her hair out of Ron's fingers and giving him a playful push.

"Yeah, you have a good day?" Ron asked, unable to take his eyes and hands off Hermione.

"Well, that remains to be seen," Harry gave a nervous laugh. "You know how we're always saying this house feels so big and empty and we wish people would come visit?"

"I've never said that," Hermione said.

"Yeah, don't we like our privacy here?" Ron leaned back against the loveseat.

"We do, we do," Harry admitted. 'But three people in a house with four bedrooms? A little selfish, right?"

"Harry, what are you talking about?" Hermione demanded.

"I was going to work this morning and Neville stopped to ask if he could live here for a while."

"Neville?" Ron raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't he live with his grandmother?"

"He's ready to move out," Harry tried another smile.

"I don't know?" Ron looked at Hermione. "What do you thing? Neville's not that much trouble."

"He says he cooks," Harry put in.

"All right," Hermione nodded. "He probably needs a home."

"Thanks," Harry pretended to head for the door and then turned around at the last moment. "Oh, I almost forgot. Right after lunch, I ran into Luna Lovegood. It turns out she doesn't have a place to live . . . so, you know . . ."

"Harry," Hermione fixed him with a stare, "what did you do?"

"I couldn't just leave her standing there," Harry protested. "Not after what happened to her and her father. And she probably won't stay a week . . ."

"You asked her and Neville without asking us?" Hermione's eyes were wide.

"Neville asked me, and it is my house . . ." Harry trailed off, feeling like a prat.

"It was my family's tent that we stayed in for months," Ron pointed out.

"And you both ate the food I made for months," Hermione added.

Knowing he had lost that round, Harry tried a different tactic. "I can't say no, not when people need help. You both knew my weakness for 'heroics' when you moved in – don't blame me for it now."

"Where will everyone sleep?" Hermione asked.

Harry glanced around the library, but she gave him such a ferocious look that he didn't dare such changing the room into a bedroom.

"Two people can share. Hermione, you and Luna . . . No? Well, Ron and – all right, me and Neville?"

"Don't you think after the torture he endured at Hogwarts he needs his own space?" Hermione asked.

"Fine, I'll room with Luna," Harry suggested.

"And you think my sister will like that?" Ron demanded.

"How about this?" Harry's raised his voice a notch. "You two move into my room which is the biggest, Luna takes the green bedroom, Neville takes the blue, and I sleep in the smallest room at the back?"

"Ron and I are not sharing a room," Hermione decided.

"Why not?" Ron questioned.

"Ronald!" Hermione scolded.

"Well, we already –"

"Ronald Weasley if you say another word, I will hex into next week," Hermione held up a finger.

"Really, Hermione," Harry urged, "no one has time to pretend that you and Ron haven't snogged in every room of this place, including my room."

"Ron said he wouldn't tell you," Hermione smacked Ron on the arm.

"What are hitting me for?" Ron protested. "He's the one that wants us in the same room."

"I know," she turned to look at Harry. "It's not exactly respectable, and Ron, I swear if I turn to look at you and you're giving Harry that stupid grinning look, I will hit you again."

Ron quickly wiped the smirk off his face.

"But I suppose having another girl in the house would be nice," Hermione finally admitted. "It sounds better than saying I live with two boys."

"Men," Ron corrected.

"That's even worse!"

"So you agree?" Harry asked. "Good, 'cause I told Luna to wait with her stuff on the street. I'll bring her in now. Oh, and Neville will arrive tomorrow morning, so we need to move everything tonight."

Ron groaned and laid his head on the back of the loveseat. Hermione shook her head at him, as if suggesting all of it was his fault.

------

Neville arrived at seven the next morning. Ron, complaining that his back hurt from trying to move all the furniture, was sitting at the table, and Hermione was hovering over Luna to make sure that she didn't burn the breakfast.

"Watch it, Luna," Hermione cautioned. "Not so much butter."

"I'm all sore," Ron griped, grabbing a cup of tea.

"I told you to just use magic," Harry said weakly. "What made you think you could lift a whole bed by yourself?"

"I thought we could lift it together," Ron growled, sloshing his tea.

"Morning," Neville stepped into the kitchen.

"Oh, Neville," Hermione rushed over to hug him, "welcome to our home. We're so happy you're here. Harry told us, and I only wish we could have been together all last year – Luna, the eggs are burning!"

"Look at all the black smoke!" Luna gazed in wonder at the burning food.

Two minutes later, Harry decided to make his exit from a smoke-filled kitchen where Hermione scolded Luna, Neville tried to drag in three huge trunks, and Kreacher begged Master to let him have the kitchen again so Master might have a proper breakfast.

------

"Finally Friday," Harry muttered as he sat down in the jury box beside Mrs. Tonks.

Mrs. Longbottom looked very severe and refused to speak to him, but Harry didn't know what to say to her either. He just wanted to make it through the day, and then he had the whole weekend to sort out his townhouse.

"We have some very important defendants today," Mr. Weasley announced with satisfaction. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to put them on the stand. Let the trail begin." He banged on the stand with his gavel. "Bring forth the entire family."

Harry started, sitting up in his chair. A whole family?

And then he froze as he watched Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco Malfoy step into the prisoner's box.


	3. Chapter 3 The Malfoy Trial

Here is another chapter. I'm having fun with this story, but I promise to return to my other ones soon.

Disclaimer: I own none of these characters and I make not a single silver Sickle.

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Harry stared down at the Malfoys as they came into the box. They looked awful. They were all dressed in drab gray: Narcissa in a loose dress, and the men in plain shirts and worn pants. All of Lucius's hair had been hacked off, and he looked like a starved scarecrow as he stood in the box, looking down at the floor. Narcissa's hair was back in a braid, but her face looked pale and tortured with ugly bruises standing on her formerly-flawless skin. She kept beside Draco, her long fingers clutching at his shoulder protectively.

Draco's hair hung limply, dirty and unkempt, and he stared dully in front of him as if he saw nothing. They all looked hungry and tired. Harry watched them without blinking, hardly able to believe this was the family that had threatened him for so long. They seemed so pathetic, so weak and helpless as they stood there with iron manacles chaining their wrists together.

A small smile played on Mr. Weasley's face as he gazed down at them. "Hmm," he said softly so only the people in the jury box could hear, "I'm guessing Kisses all around."

Mr. Weasley began stacking up papers, parchment after parchment on top of each other while the courtroom waited sat in silence. Finally, Narcissa couldn't take the quiet any more.

"Please," she cried, her voice strangled and hoarse, "don't hurt my son. Do what you like to us, but leave my son alone."

"Quiet," Lucius hissed as her, his face full of panic. "Quiet, woman."

"No," Narcissa grew frantic, "no, don't listen to him. I beg you, I beg all of you, don't hurt my son. Draco did nothing – Lucius and I - we will take the blame."

Lucius stepped towards her angrily, but Mr. Weasley banged on his gavel.

"Prisoners will remain silent until called on for testimony," Mr. Weasley ordered. "First, the list of accusations."

For the next ten minutes, the sins of the Malfoys rang through the courtroom, all emphasized in Mr. Weasley's stern voice. Beginning with crimes committed years ago up through the last spring. Harry sat in horrified amazement at all the things the Malfoys had done. Lucius being a Death Eater, Lucius giving Ginny Tom Riddle's diary, Draco's involvement with Dolores Umbridge, Narcissa's arrangement with Snape to kill Dumbledore, Hermione's torture at Malfoy Manor . . . on and on the crimes went.

Narcissa began crying halfway through, and by the end, she had both arms wrapped around Draco and was sobbing, her face buried into his shoulder. Draco gave no sign of life – Harry wasn't even sure if he had blinked the entire time.

"For all these crimes," Mr. Weasley ground out, "how do you plead?"

"We didn't mean to," Narcissa wept. "We were tricked into it, into all of it."

"Prisoners pled guilty," Mr. Weasley looked triumphant.

"Not Draco!" Narcissa cried. "Never Draco. Lucius and I – we did it all. Draco never would have done anything if we haven't pushed him into it."

"Yet, Draco did participate and must be held responsible," Mr. Weasley announced. "This jury will decide the level of his involvement, whether he spends a lifetime in Azkaban or receives the Kiss."

Narcissa gasped for breath. She turned so pale Harry was sure she would faint. Tears spilled down her white cheeks, and then she looked at her husband "You did it!" she screamed. "You monster, you've killed our son. You've killed us all!"

Narcissa grabbed for her husband before the guards could separate them. She was screaming and fighting, and when the guards pulled her out of the box, Lucius had bleeding scratches down his face.

"Take the prisoner back to her cell," Mr. Weasley ordered, bang his gavel. "Sentence will be passed without the prisoner present."

"No, not my Draco!" Narcissa begged as she was dragged towards the door. "No, no, don't hurt him. Please!"

She looked right at Harry, her beautiful eyes full of agony. "I saved you!" she screamed. "I saved you – don't let them kill my son. I let you live!"

"Take her away," Mr. Weasley ordered. "I will have order in my courtroom. Trial will continue."

Lucius did not make a move towards his son – the two Malfoy men stood in the box like perfect strangers, Lucius trying to keep any shred of dignity and Draco looking catatonic.

"Do the remaining prisoners have any testimony to give?" Mr. Weasley asked.

It was a climatic moment – Harry knew that much. Mr. Weasley had Lucius Malfoy right where he always wanted him. Lucius had nothing to hide behind, not his name or his money or his friends. Lucius looked around briefly and then shook his head and returned to staring at the floor.

"And the younger Mr. Malfoy has nothing to add?"

Harry leaned forward. Part of him wanted to smirk at Draco, to punish him for all the torment Draco had inflicted. But another part of Harry wanted to yell at Draco to speak, to stand up for himself, to refuse to burn for his parents' sins.

Draco gave no indication that he had heard anything. He didn't even look up.

Mr. Weasley began to start reading through the pile of evidence. If the list of crimes against the Malfoys had been overwhelming, the evidence to support those accusations was absolutely damning. Witnesses had written statements, the Malfoys movements had been tracked, and records of evils deeds done with their wands were there as well. Their house had been raided and ransacked, and Mr. Weasley had a list of all the Dark Arts objects that were hidden there.

Obviously, Mr. Weasley had been planning to get the Malfoys for a long time, and he read the papers with a half-smile on his face. Whereas the trials of the other prisoners had progressed at a steady pace, Mr. Weasley seemed to take pleasure in dragging out the Malfoys' case. Every piece of paper, Mr. Weasley read aloud and then asked for any objections or explanations from the prisoners. Lucius did not have the strength to protest, and Draco did not move.

The bell for lunch rang, and Mr. Weasley announced, "We will break for lunch. Guards, take the prisoners out of the box. When we return, Mr. Harry Potter will give his evidence for the case of Malfoy vs. the Ministry."

Harry watched as Lucius stepped out of the box, but the guard had to nudge Draco into movement. The blond haired boy looked he was sleep walking without the hope of ever walking up.

"That was quite a long time to spend on one case," Mrs. Longbottom reflected as she stood up.

"Yes, but I plan to finish the Malfoys once and for all," Mr. Weasley announced. "I want Lucius executed and Narcissa and Draco Kissed."

Mr. Weasley turned as walked out of the room. An uncomfortable silence followed with half the jury looking sympathetic with Mr. Weasley and the other half unsure what to say.

Harry was in the latter half, and he hesitated only for a second before slipping out of the room.

He glanced around himself uncertainly and then headed for the stairs, down to the cells where all the prisoners were held. He reached the huge iron doors and tapped the knocker softly. The window box slid open, and Harry saw the top half of a guard's face.

"Yes, may I help you?"

"I'm – I'm Harry Potter," Harry said, unnecessarily for he saw that the guard recognized him. "I need to speak to one of the prisoners."

The guard's brow wrinkled in confusion. "I'm not supposed to let anyone –"

"I'm on the jury," Harry said hurriedly. "I just need to speak to one prisoner – you can keep my wand while I'm in there."

The guard hesitated and then nodded. He shut the window, and Harry heard heavy bolts sliding back before the guard opened the door.

Harry handed out his wand, and the guard took it, asking, "Which prisoner?"

"Narcisa Malfoy," Harry replied.

"This way," the guard led him down a maze of hallways.

Some of the cells looked like a Muggles' prison – iron bars spaced about four inches apart. Other cells were solid-walled with huge barred doors. The guard let Harry to one of the solid cells and began pulling back the bar from the door.

"You have ten minutes," the guard announced.

Inside, the cell was ten feet by ten with a single metal bar across the ceiling that glowed weakly so the room was not completely dark. Narcissa sat on one of the two wooden stools in one corner, tears still leaking down her cheeks and her arms chained together.

She looked up fearfully when the guard opened the door, and her red eyes widened when she saw Harry.

"What?" she put a hand on the wall to brace herself. "What – have you come to me that it's over? Where is Draco? Where is Draco! What did you do to him?"

"Ten minutes," the guard nodded and stepped out, sealing the door shut.

"The trial broke for lunch," Harry said awkwardly. "I don't have much time – but I wanted to talk to you."

"About what?" Narcissa sank back onto her seat. "What could you possibly say to me now?"

"What you said in the courtroom," Harry cleared his throat. "About saving me. Well, you did – when you told them I was dead. You saved me, but you wouldn't have had to if I wasn't in danger first."

Narcissa watched him silently.

"Your family has always put me in danger," Harry continued, feeling nervous. "Lucius was a Death Eater and he tried to kill Ginny. He would have let Voldemort kill me the night Cedric died. He would have killed me in the Ministry the night Sirius died. Draco would have killed me the night Dumbledore died, except Snape told him not to. You have stood by their decision and your sister's for years. So I'm asking you now, why should I care? Why should I care if you all die?"

Harry was surprised at the coldness in his own voice, but Narcissa showed nothing but misery. She lowered her head into her hands and began to cry, her shoulders shaking violently.

Harry turned to go for the door when Narcissa started talking. At first, her words were jumbled, and then she began to talk faster and faster.

"It was all so easy in the beginning . . . so very simple. Lucius – he promised me that the Dark Lord would win. He would win, and if we wanted to keep our standing in the Wizarding world, we needed to be on the winning side. The Dark Lord fell when Draco was a baby, and Lucius had the Dark Mark, but he said we needed to wait to see what would happen. Then he came back, and I thought Lucius would be killed. By then, Lucius convinced me that a child could never defeat the Dark Lord, and that we would be killed if we didn't side with the Death Eaters. I wanted Draco to have power, not as much as his father wanted it, but I didn't see why my son couldn't make the Malfoy name even better. But these last two years, I finally realized Draco would be sacrificed for Lucius's mistakes . . ." Narcissa leaned back against the wall, her face sagged into exhaustion. "I would do anything for Draco. I still love Lucius, but for him, it was never about us. It was about him, and we were always second. But for me, Draco will always come first. I'll do anything to save my son."

Harry did not move as he watched her.

"Do what you like to me," Narcissa continued. "Kill me, Kiss me, sent me to Azkaban and seal the door forever. But don't hurt my baby. He'll die in Azkaban, and he can't get the Kiss. Don't let him get the Kiss – I would die. I have money – it's all yours if you help Draco."

"I can't take –"

"I have property, too," Narcissa rushed on. "Houses in other countries. You can sell them and never work again, travel all over the world. I have family jewelry, heirlooms that are priceless. They're all yours if Draco lives."

"I don't want you stuff," Harry said sharply.

Tears began trickling down Narcissa's cheeks, and she looked tortured and broken.

"Please," she begged out of lips that barely moved. "Please, please, from a mother for her son to another son."

"Voldemort killed my mother," Harry said simply.

Narcissa nodded, more tears spilling out with the movement. "Yes, she did what was necessary to protect her son. I would do anything to protect Draco."

Harry had nothing to say. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. And then the guard began opening the door.

Narcissa slipped off the stool and fell on her knees before Harry. She reached out and grabbed his hand. "Please, I beg you," she whispered. "I ask what my husband never will, I beg you on my knees, I plead for my son. I offer myself for him – take me instead. I beg you to help him."

"Time's up," the guard announced.

Harry looked down at Narcissa, and then he pulled away without a word. As the guard shut the door, Harry could hear her crying again.

He got some lunch and ate in the corner of the room by himself. The other jurors were discussing the case, but Harry refused to listen and concentrated on chewing and trying not to think. He wished more than anything he could crawl back into his bed and hide until it was all over. Once it was over, he could move forward, but now he was stuck. Stuck between his heart and his head, his good intentions and his need for closure, between his hatred of evil and his hope for the future.

"It's time," someone announced from the doorway.

Harry put his sandwich wrapper in wastebasket. He had not remembered eating the sandwich, but it was gone and he walked quietly back into the courtroom.

The Malfoy came out again; Narcissa was with them, pale and shaking, but silent.

Mr. Weasley picked up the papers again and gave a brief description of the evidence thus far, and then he turned to Harry.

"Now, Mr. Potter will give evidence," Mr. Weasley nodded towards him.

Harry had given evidence before, but he had never felt so nervous as he stood up and made his way to the magic microphone.

"What can you testify about the Malfoys?" Mr. Weasley asked.

Harry looked at the box. Narcissa was crying, but her face was set in marble, her eyes round and open. Draco did not move, but Lucius lifted his eyes, and Harry looked into those pale blues eyes for a second.

"The Malfoys deserve to be punished for their crimes," Harry stated flatly. "They have lied, betrayed their fellow wizards, tortured, killed, and sided with Voldemort more than once. They all deserve the Kiss."

Narcissa made a choking noise. She covered her face. Lucius looked at her, and for a second, he seemed nothing more than a concerned husband and father. The look faded, but Harry felt as if he had just witnessed a private family moment.

Harry was about to step back to allow Mr. Weasley to ask questions, but Harry suddenly stepped closer to the microphone and grabbed it with one hand.

"But," Harry said, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart, "they have done good as well. Lucius Malfoy did give the diary to Ginny, but I was able to destroy it, thus removing one of the seven Horcruxes. That gave Dumbledore a clue that there were more. Draco did try to kill me and Dumbledore, but he was doing so to protect his own life and was forced to serve Voldemort to repay Lucius's shortcomings. And Narcissa did save my life in the final battle, telling everyone I was dead and allowing me to live long enough to defeat Voldemort once and for all. Because of this, I cast my vote for them only to go to Azkaban."

"Wait!" Mr. Weasley said sharply, but Harry kept going.

"I believe Lucius belongs in Azkaban permanently, and Narcissa for several years, but I ask my fellow jurors to reconsider Draco Malfoy."

For the first time, a flicker of recognition shown in Draco eyes, and he blinked slowly.

"Consider that Draco was underage when he was forced to join the Death Eaters," Harry spoke in the microphone and ignored the cold sweat rolling down his back. "He was pushed into doing something that may or may not have been his choice. Lucius was an unfit father, and the Ministry shares in the responsibility for not removing Draco from such an environment."

Lucius looked angry, but Narcissa looked slightly less tortured.

Harry wasn't really sure where he was finding the right words, but he kept talking. "I believe Draco can be rehabilitated given the proper conditions. I believe that he should give up his wand, be declared a ward of the court, and be under probation for the next few years with a – a guardian to oversee his progress."

Mr. Weasley looked stunned as did the other jurors. Harry couldn't believe his own words that had just let his own mouth. He wasn't sure he understood what he had said, but he decided to keep talking. "I think Draco should have – uh, his 'of age' thing redone. Say he can't be of age until twenty-one or twenty-three. See if time with someone not connected with the Dark Arts can change him."

"That's impossible," Mr. Weasley cut through. "They all deserve the Kiss."

"I won't vote that way," Harry said adamantly. "I won't see them punished that way, and you will never get my vote."

Mrs. Tonks looked frustrated, and Kingsley shook his head as Mrs. Longbottom frowned.

"A short recess!" Mr. Weasley declared.

All the jurors marched Harry back to the lunchroom, and Mr. Weasley pointed to a chair. Harry sank into it and shrank back as the other standing adults gathering around him.

"This is not protocol," Mr. Weasley began. "You do not announce your idea of sentencing in front of the prisoners."

"They need to suffer the consequences," Mrs. Longbottom insisted, going as far as to point her forefinger at Harry.

"You are out of line, Mr. Potter," Mrs. Tonks added. "You may think you are in charge of this, but you are only one member of this juror and the youngest member at that."

"Harry, I understand your hesitation," Kingsley began, but Mr. Diggory interrupted.

"These people killed my son," he stepped in front of Kingsley. "Lucius was one of the Death Eaters at the graveside where my boy died."

Mundangus said nothing, just watched with glowering eyes.

Harry felt a wave of helpless sweep over him, and he wished he could run back to the bathroom and hide. He hurt inside, a swelling pain that made his chest ache. And then Harry raised his head, his teeth set.

"No," he said in a low voice, "no, it ends here. I'm not agreeing to a death sentence for the Malfoys. Yes, maybe they deserve it, Lucius does, I agree. But Draco was pushed into this. Two years ago, he was miserable at Hogwarts because he had to take Lucius's place to please Voldemort. Why should he die just because his parents were cruel and greedy for power? I won't do it. I say no."

Mr. Weasley stopped short, and for a moment, Harry saw the man he used to be – Ron's dad who laughed and smiled and loved his family. Mr. Weasley straightened and Harry saw the man who had lost a son, had two sons brutally maimed, and Harry suddenly realized that he was looking at his future father-in-law. This man would expect him to take care of his only daughter, to love and protect her.

"I can't do it, Arthur," Harry admitted. "I just can't."

Mr. Weasley must have seen something absolute on Harry's face for the older man turned away without another word.

"Do you really expect us to let Draco wander free?" Mrs. Tonks demanded. "Just let him go?"

"No, I was serious," Harry protested. "Why can't he live with someone? Put him under house arrest. See if he changes. Worst that can happen is that he doesn't change, and then you can send him to Azkaban. But he might change, and you will have an example to show other wayward wizards that people can change for the better if they are given a second chance."

"He won't change," Mrs. Longbottom snapped. "He's been a horrible bully since he was child, and he will be the same forever. Don't think I haven't seen how he treats my Neville."

"Who would take him in?" Kingsley asked before Mrs. Longbottom could go on. "Who would want him near their family?"

"You could never place him in someone's home," Mundangus shook his head. "He'd be a threat to anyone living there."

"Without his wand?" Kingsley raised an eyebrow.

"He'd find a way kill them all," Mrs. Longbottom insisted. "Nasty boy with those sneaky eyes and his father's ugly temper."

"And if we send him to any of his extended family, that might be worse," Mr. Diggory spoke up. "The whole branch of the family is corrupt."

"Sirius wasn't!" Harry protested, but no one was listening to him.

"And why waste the time on him?" Mundangus said. "Cart him off to Azkaban and forget it. In a few years, if he's still alive, we can reconsider. There have already been enough suicides in the place – one or two more won't make that much a difference."

"Why are we spending so much time on him?" Mrs. Tonks asked. "Get rid of the whole family, and let us get back to the other cases."

"So they all go to Azkaban?" Kingsley asked, glancing quickly at Harry. "Are we agreed or should we go hear the rest of the evidence?"

"They'll have to," Mrs. Tonks decided. "Who would volunteer to take in Draco?"

"I'll do it."

Harry blinked, finally realizing that the words had come from him. All the adults swung their heads to look at him.

"Excuse me?" Mrs. Longbottom said, pressing her lips together. "You?"

"Yes," Harry nodded, deciding to press on through since he had started down this path. "I'm of age. With the magical binding spell, Draco will be underage. He can't use magic, and we can put up wards so he can't leave."

"Impossible," Mundangus declared. "You can't take in Draco Malfoy. That would absolutely never happen – not if you live a thousand years."

------

Harry walked into the kitchen to see everyone around the table. Hermione and Ron had their heads together, whispering secrets while Neville was showing a herbology book to Luna who was gazing out the window. Kreacher dashed around the table, serving food on big plates and grabbing cups of tea.

Hermione looked up with a smile that faded the moment she saw Harry.

"What's wrong?" she asked immediately.

"Well," Harry stopped just inside the doorway, "I have some bad news and some more bad news and some worse news."

Everyone looked at him anxiously.

Harry gave a sheepish smile. "I kind of invited someone else to – er, stay here for a while."

"What?" Ron and Hermione said together.

"And it's not for a while, but maybe for a year," Harry went on, feeling like an absolute idiot.

Ron and Hermione did not look happy, and Neville glanced uncomfortably at Luna.

"And more than that, it's a recent prisoner of the Ministry," Harry stammered on. "And – and it's him."

He stepped back, and Draco stepped in front of the doorway. He still had the iron chains on his wrists, and he looked torn between panic and exhaustion.

Neville dropped his book on the floor with a thud.


	4. Chapter 4 Shock

Yes, I know. Two updates in one day. I am amazing. I had a little time so I hammered out this short chapter. I hope you enjoy it and I can't wait to hear about your comments to the different events taking place in this chapter.

There may be typos, but I'm trying to get these out as quickly as possible.

Disclaimer: Own nothing, have no money.

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Harry waited for the hammer to come down. He looked see the disbelief in his friends' eyes, and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before that disbelief turned into anger. He had really crossed the line this time.

"Can I say something?" Neville asked cautiously.

"Yeah?" Harry tried not to wince.

"I just want to ask Draco one question," Neville stood up. "I know this is your house, Harry, but I just want to ask Draco one little question."

"Go ahead," Harry stepped back.

"Well, it's just," Neville approached Draco, "just wanted to know . . ."

Neville drew back his arm and drove his fist into Draco's face.

Draco gave a cry as he tumbled back against the wall, his hands covering his face.

"Right," Neville goaded. "That's about it – except –" he kicked Draco hard on the side of his leg. "You piece of crap, this is for all those years at school. Just stupid Neville Longbottom with his stupid looks and stupid ideas and no friends." Neville kicked him again.

Harry wondered if he should try to stop them, but he stayed still, hoping Neville might stop soon.

"I swear," Neville bent down so he could look Draco in the eye. Draco's hands were still over his face though his eyes were red-rimmed and wide. "I swear, Malfoy, I catch you doing anything, anything at all, I break every bone in your body. And I see you looking at Luna or Hermione, just a glance, I'll give you the Killing Curse and then call the Ministry to report the death of another low-life scum. You got it?"

Draco nodded quickly.

Neville reached out and popped him on the jaw, causing Draco's head to bang back against the wall.

"I expect a real answer," Neville said calmly.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Draco said, his voice sounding muffled under his hands.

"Good, because, Malfoy? Don't think your death would worry me for a second. Your aunt tortured my parents, and if your side had won, you wouldn't have thought twice about killing me. I better not catch you wandering around, because I will kill first and ask questions later."

Neville stood and went to sit beside Luna.

Ron look shocked by Neville's actions and words, but Hermione wore a slight smile as if she understood everything Neville meant.

"Where's the prisoner going to sleep?" Neville asked Harry.

"Uh," Harry hesitated, "I didn't think about that yet."

"All the rooms are filled," Hermione announced. "Ron and I share, and you, Neville, and Luna have the other rooms. We only have four rooms, Harry."

Her eyes clearly added "Something you should have thought before you brought Draco here."

"Draco can have my room," Harry blurted out. "I'll sleep in the library."

"No, you won't!" Hermione exclaimed at the same as Ron said, "You don't have to do that."

"We can share," Neville volunteered. "You and me, Harry. But I want him chained up at night."

"He doesn't have a wand," Harry protested.

"Not all crimes are committed with magic," Neville countered. "And his room would right next to Luna."

"Fine, fine, he gets chained up at night," Harry agreed. "He's not allowed to leave the townhouse."

"He's under house-arrest?" Hermione asked, curious.

"Yeah, we got wards over the house that will alert the Ministry if he tries to – you know, leave."

"Oh, I got something else in mind if he tries to leave," Neville decided. "What's he going to do all day? I don't want him alone here with Luna."

Luna tilted her head as she looked at Neville. "You are very kind, but you should remember I, too, have a wand. And I survived the war. One prisoner will not hurt me – I would hurt him before he could touch me. But you are kind to worry. No one worries about me, not since my father died."

"He'll find something to do," Harry said quickly.

"I think he should clean the house," Ron spoke up. "Dress him up like a house-elf and treat him like one."

"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed crossly.

"Okay, fine," Harry said. "We can worry about that later. For now, he can just get cleaned up. Kreacher, can you take him upstairs."

The little house-elf stepped forward, surveying Draco with a critical eye. "Does Master wish Mr. Malfoy to be cleaned? And then chained to bed?"

"Yeah, but –"

"Then Master shall be obeyed," Kreacher went forward with grim determination.

Draco still sat on the floor, a look of dazed pain on his face as if he could not comprehend what had happened to him. He had dropped his hands, but his lips were swollen and red where Neville had punched him.

Kreacher grabbed Draco by the front of his prison shirt and pulled him to his feet. The little house elf kept a tight grip on the shirt so that Draco had to bend over as Kreacher led him out of the kitchen, the chains around his wrists dragging on the floor. Harry could hear Kreacher muttering,

"Yes, cleaned-up. Scrub his skin off, for trying to hurt Master. Make him suffer for hurting Master."

Once they were gone, Harry found himself in the kitchen with four pairs of eyes watching him.

"Don't say it," he told them as he sat down to a plate of food.

"Say what?" Ron asked politely. "That you're barking mad?"

"Draco? Really?" Hermione leaned towards Harry, trying to look sympathetic. "Harry, it's Draco. Draco!"

"Draco who has tormented up all these years," Ron reminded him.

"Draco who would have killed you that last year at Hogwarts," Hermione added, "if Snape hadn't stopped him."

"Draco whose family served Voldemort," Ron exclaimed.

"Draco who should have died in the last battle," Neville decided. "Why did you bring him here?"

"Because," Harry admitted, "because I couldn't see another person killed. I couldn't do it – I have to believe that there is some good left. I know Draco is a rotter, but his mother . . . she asked me."

"That's right," Ron nodded reluctantly. "You've always had a soft spot for mothers."

"Ron," Hermione admonished, with a look that said that information was too personal to just blurt out.

"Well, he has," Ron insisted. "Soft spot for mothers and bad luck with father figures."

"That's enough," Hermione decided. "How long is Draco to stay with us? Were you serious about a year or will it just feel like a year?"

"It might be a year," Harry admitted.

Silence met his announcement.

"All right," Hermione finally said. "Why don't we all just calm down and talk about what happened today at the Ministry? Start at the beginning, Harry, and take us through the whole day."

------

Exhausted and drained, Harry made his way up the stairs. He rubbed the back of his neck and thought that the only thing he wanted at the moment was a hot shower and a long night's sleep.

He had talked for what seemed like hours, and no one was happy when he finished. Harry reflected that he wasn't the best storyteller. What had been so important, so moving during the trial sounded trite or overly dramatic when he told it. He ended up mumbling and looking down at his plate as his ears turned red. After he finished, no one criticized him, but Harry couldn't stay in the uncomfortable silence any longer.

He headed up the stairs and met Kreacher in the hall. Kreacher was carrying a pile of old clothes and iron chains.

"Where's Malfoy?" Harry asked.

"In bed, sir," the house elf answered. "Down for the night, scrubbed very clean."

"Okay," Harry glanced in the direction of Malfoy's room. He wanted to duck into the other room that he would now share with Neville, but Harry dragged his feet down towards the smallest bedroom. The others would want affirmation that Draco was secured for the night.

Harry pushed open the door and then he started in surprise at the sight.

Draco was on a narrow bed, dressed in gray pajamas. His skin looked very pink as if he had been rubbed with sandpaper, and his hair was still damp. But most shocking, a metal collar was around Draco's neck, and a chain ran from the collar to the bolt in the wall.

Harry guessed that Kreacher had conjured the chain and the collar, but he had supposed that Kreacher was going to put a shackle around Draco's ankle or wrist, but not his throat. Draco looked like a slave from Muggle movies that Harry had seen about ancient Rome and Greece – a slave about to be sold to on an auction block.

It was the worst humiliation Harry had ever seen, and he had seen some humiliating things during the last seven years. He had always thought that Voldemort and his followers wanted humiliation along with pain when they tortured others, but Draco chained like that – Harry tried not to flinch.

Draco had been staring straight ahead, but he glanced towards Harry with a blank face.

"Er . . . guess you're in bed," Harry said awkwardly. "Uh – good night."

"Please," Draco's voice sounded strained.

"What?" Harry said, shorter than he meant to.

"Can – can I have something to – to eat?" Draco whispered.

"Oh, right," Harry blurted out. "Yeah, suppose you're hungry."

It sounded like they were strangers or even worse, a prisoner and his warden.

"I'll have Kreacher bring you up something," Harry turned and nearly tripped over Kreacher.

"Sorry," Harry apologized. "Can you get him some food?"

"Doesn't deserve any," Kreacher shook his head, making his big, pointy ears waggled. "Should let him starve for what he did to Master."

"Master is all right," Harry insisted. "Master – er, I am fine, and we're not starving people in my house. You don't have to cook him a feast or anything nice, but give him something."

"Very well," Kreacher sighed. "I can find a bone and old bread for our prisoner."

"No, some descent food," Harry called after him. He wasn't sure why he was making such a big deal about it; the Ministry had made no certain stipulations about how Draco was to be treated while under house-arrest. They had only made Harry sign a contract saying that he would ensure that Draco remained at his residence until a determined length of time.

If anything, Harry found the lack of details upsetting. That was the problem with the Ministry – they let horrible things slide right under their noses because they were too busy to deal with anything, and then they cracked down on the smallest offences. That was not the way to run a government, Harry thought, even though he had little experience with running a government.

He turned back into the doorway to see Draco.

"Is your – you know, is it loose enough?" Harry asked. "Can you breathe?"

Draco blinked and then nodded.

"Good," Harry said before turning to leave again.

"What happened to my parents?" Draco whispered.

Harry stopped, not looking back. "They went to Azkaban," he said.

"How long?" Draco was barely audible.

"I don't know," Harry still wouldn't look back. "Maybe a few years, maybe for life."

Harry stepped into the hallway before he realized that he was shaking again. The helpless feeling was slowly rising. He felt like he had in loo a few days ago, dizzy, sick, and worn-out. He wanted to sink down on the floor and close in on himself again, but he heard Kreacher coming back.

Harry straightened and tried to look normal.

Kreacher carried an old tray with soup and brown bread with a cup of water. "Better do," the house elf said as he plodded along. "Give the prisoner food, but cold food. Not giving him hot soup, not after the way he's treated Master. Master's too kind for his own good, everyone taking advantage of good-hearted Master."

Harry suddenly smiled in spite of himself. He felt a fond indulgence for his house elf and made a mental note to give him something extra special the next day, maybe a few pieces of the shiny Muggle money that Kreacher liked so much. Under the stairs, Kreacher liked to keep a collection of everything special – the old stuff he had from when Sirius was alive had all been replaced with gifts from Harry. Apparently, anything Harry gave him from a candy wrapper to a two pound coin was worthy of placement under the stairs.

"Harry?" Hermione called from downstairs. "Ginny wants to talk to you."

Forgetting about Draco, Harry raced towards the stairs. "On the phone?"

"No," Hermione gave him an odd look from where she stood at the bottom, "through the fireplace. In the library."

Harry ran into the library, his exhaustion forgotten. The other four young people sat around, drinking hot tea, but Harry went straight to the fireplace and knelt. He saw Ginny's head in the coals of the fire, and for minute, he thought that her real hair was the same color as the fire image. He grinned as he approached.

"Hey, Ginny," he nodded.

"Don't 'hey' me," she ordered, her blazing lips pressing together. "I haven't talked to you for a week. And you haven't snogged me in forever."

Ron began to choke on his tea, and Hermione rolled her eyes and clapped him on the back.

"I wanted to see you," Harry crouched by the fire. "But McGonagall refuses to give me permission to visit Hogwarts, and I don't feel right about going with her permission."

"Sorry you had to miss Seventh Year," Ginny told him sympathetically. "They really let us live this year. We have the run of the school, and teachers hardly ever give us detention. But you promised you'd write!"

"I will," Harry said, grinning goofily he knew, but he couldn't stop himself when he was around Ginny.

"I'll box your ears proper at Christmas if you don't," she threatened. "And I don't want any of those stupid 'Today I did this and that' letters. You give me some good gossip, Harry Potter, or you'll never get to – you know."

"I'm dying over here," Ron sputtered over his tea cup.

"And you tell my brother to shape up as well," Ginny continued. "Well, I better go. I'm not supposed to be using this fireplace. I love you, and I'll see you soon."

"Love you," Harry echoed. The coals felt back against the grate, and he lost sight of her face.

Harry rolled over to sit on the hearth, wrapping his hands around his knees.

"She sounds like she's having a good year," Hermione offered cheerfully.

"Yeah," Neville agreed.

"She shouldn't be there," Harry huffed. "She doesn't need Hogwarts. She's – she's the most accomplished witch of her year, everyone said so! She can fight, too. I don't see why she had to be hidden away at Hogwarts, and I'm not allowed to visit."

"Why can't you visit?" Neville asked slowly.

"McGonagall thought it would cause problems," Harry admitted. "Something about her being a student and all my fame distracting her and the other students, and people would think we were dating. I think it's just one more way to keep me from traveling. You know, no one wants me to go outside London."

"Because who would guard the prisoners at your home?" Ron snipped. He looked ashamed the moment the words left his lips. "Sorry, mate. Just kind of came out."

"You seriously can't leave London?" Hermione moved to sit next to Ron, resting her head against shoulder.

"Well, sort of," Harry admitted. "I was talking about wanting to go to Bristol for a weekend holiday, and everyone on the jury agreed it was bad idea."

"Why Bristol?" Ron asked, reaching to stroke Hermione's hair as he did every time she got close to him.

"I dunno," Harry shrugged. "I always wanted to go there. The Clifton Suspension Bridge? I know that has to be held up by magic."

Neville gave a short laugh, and Harry felt better than he had amused one friend after an evening of disaster.

"Draco?" Hermione finally said after a few moment's of pleasant silence.

"He's in his room," Harry said, not wanting to meet her eyes or anyone else's. "He's – uh, chained down. He's not going anywhere."

"What happened to his wand?" Luna suddenly spoke. "I always wonder what happened to their wands once they took them away."

"The Ministry's holding it," Harry replied.

"We should keep track of our own wands," Ron noted with the knowledge of one who had learned a great deal about wands. "We don't want Malfoy taking them."

"We all will look after our wands," Hermione nodded.

"But Harry had two," Luna said dreamily. "Two wands all to himself."

"That's right!" Hermione sat up. "The Elder Wand. Where is it?"

"Upstairs," Harry gulped. "In a box, in the hall closet."

"Harry!" Hermione scolded.

"Well, where am I supposed to keep it?" Harry protested. "I have to keep it safe until I die of old age. I was going to put it in Dumbledore's tomb, but I can't leave to go there yet. Where would you put it?"

"In your vault at Gringotts?" Hermione suggested, trying not to roll her eyes.

"Oh, yeah," Harry felt a bit stupid. "That is a better place. Well, you can all calm down. I'll go upstairs, find it, and put in my room for the night. First thing tomorrow, it goes to the bank. And Draco can't get out of bed – that I'm sure of."

The closet was packed with boxes, but after a few minutes Harry managed to locate the right box. It was an old shoebox stuffed with papers, but the wand was buried at the bottom. He carried the box to his bedroom where two beds stood in opposite corners. Harry thought he heard the screech of an owl downstairs, but he shut his door. He hated getting anything by owl mail after Hedwig had died. It had been over a year, but his throat hurt every time he looked at a snow-white owl.

The papers were old school notes, scribbled down in his bad handwriting. He thought about looking over them, just for kicks, to remember happier days, days when he had been young and innocent and so hopeful.

"My word!" he heard Hermione cry from below. "Harry, Harry, come here this instant!"

Harry stopped to tuck the box under his bed, and then he dashed for the stairs.

Hermione was at the bottom of the steps, but she looked shocked as Neville, Ron, and Luna crowded around her. She held a scrap of paper in her hand, and as Harry drew near, he could see blood splatters on the paper.

"This just came," Hermione gasped. "An owl – Harry, read it!"

Harry grabbed the letter, trying to calm enough to discern the words on the page.

In a shaky script were the words: _Need help – in alley. S S._

Harry recognized the hand writing. He had seen it a hundred times on the board in the Potions classroom down in the dungeons. Harry felt the blood draining from his head as he stared at the other three and saw the disbelief reflected in their eyes.

"Snape?" he croaked as he held the paper. "Snape?"


	5. Chapter 5 Searching Alleys

AN: It has snowed here - yes, snow in Atlanta GA! I'm getting lots of studying and writing done.

Warning: This chapter is a bit grim. Proceed carefully.

Disclaimer: Do Not Own. Enough said.

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The room was deathly quiet, the only sound the hoarse breathing of the five young people.

Ron was the first to recover. "What?" he demanded.

"Snape's alive?" Neville croaked.

"I thought you said he died," Ron looked at Harry, almost accusingly.

"Harry," Hermione's eyes were large and worried, "what – what does this mean?"

"Snape's alive," Harry whispered. "He's – he's alive. Somehow, he's alive."

Harry turned and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Hermione asked.

"To save Snape," Harry replied. "Where else?"

"Harry . . ." Hermione trailed off, concerned.

"Yeah, don't you want to –" Ron began, but Harry shook his head.

"No, I don't," Harry replied adamantly. "I'm going to save Snape. After all that happened, I'm saving one last person even if it kills me. You can stay here, but –"

"Oh, no," Ron shook his head, "we're all going together."

"You don't have to," Harry began, but Hermione shook her head.

"Don't start that all over again. Of course, we're coming with you."

Harry looked at both them, Hermione standing so tall and proud, Ron slouching slightly just like he did when they were about to tackle something new. Harry tried not to smile, feeling better than he had in weeks. The uneasy worry melted from him, he felt awake and alive again, ready to jump into action with Ron and Hermione beside him.

"Us, too," Neville added. "At least, I want to, and Luna –"

"I will help absolutely," Luna nodded ever so slightly, her eyes wide with the importance of what was happening.

"Is Snape close by, right outside the house?" Harry asked the owl which perched on the back of a chair. He wasn't sure the bird understood him, but she seemed to give a definite shake of her feathery head, ruffling and hooting. Harry took that for a no.

"Okay, here's what we should do," he decided. "Snape could be anywhere – no telling how far the owl had to fly. So I say we spread out, each take five or six streets. Someone needs to stay here as base, and we report in every twenty minutes back here. Luna, you want to be base?"

"Yes," she agreed immediately.

"Who can conjure up a map of this section of London?" Harry asked as he went to a nearby desk, grabbing scraps of paper and stubs of pencils from inside a drawer.

"I can," Hermione offered, pulling out her wand.

"We keep the main map here," Harry said. "We write down every street we look down, and then we come back and mark it off the map. That way we're not looking down the same streets over and over again."

Hermione had already transformed a large piece of parchment into a map of their section of the city. Everyone stared at the map for a second, staring at the tiny, winding streets that went on and on, dead ends of alleys, connecting bridges, tiny side streets.

"It's doable," Harry insisted. "It'll take a while, but we'll be more thorough this way. I'm going north. Ron?"

"South," Ron optioned.

"West," Hermione decided.

"Leaves me with East," Neville decided. "Luna, only let us in, no one else."

"We should have a password," Harry handed out the pieces of paper.

"Potions?" Ron suggested with a smirk.

"That'll do," Harry nodded. "Okay, everyone keep their wands hidden, but close."

"Let's go," Neville urged.

Ron stopped to press a kiss against Hermione's lips and warn her, "Be careful."

"You, too," she told him.

Though after eight o'clock, it was still light outside as they all went out, and Harry added, "Let's use the light as long as we can. Come on."

"Luna," Neville glanced over his shoulder, "remember the password. And if Malfoy gets free, hex him first and keep him that way until we return."

They all disappeared down different streets, and Harry found himself nearly running down the sidewalk. A few people were still out, and he tried to smile and look as normal as he could as he rushed along. He went into every back alley he came across, glancing behind every waste can, stacked box, anywhere Snape could be hiding.

Five long streets, and fourteen alleys later, Harry looked at his watch and saw nearly eighteen minutes had passed. He turned and sprinted back towards the townhouse. He reached the front stairs the same time as Ron.

"Anything?" Harry asked.

"Not a sign of the slimeball," Ron replied. "Don't look at me like that – only Hermione gives me that look. Besides, it's Snape."

"Come on," Harry growled.

He found the front door locked with the dead bolt.

"Password?" Luna asked from the other side.

"Potions," Harry said.

She opened it, pulling it let both of them in. "Yes?"

"No luck," Harry admitted.

"Neville just got here," Luna pointed down the hall. The large map was taped to the wall, and Neville stood in front of it, marking off his streets.

"Hermione?" Ron asked as he went to the map.

"Haven't seen her yet," Luna said.

Neville finished marking off and started for the door again. "I'll be back in another twenty minutes."

Using his scrap of paper for reference, Ron marked off his streets, and Harry was pleased to see that his friend had covered a lot of distance, but the map was still so big, filled with streets they had not covered.

"Where is Hermione?" Ron demanded as he finished and Harry started. "I should have gone with her."

"Yeah, but we cover more spilt up."

"What if this is a trick?" Ron turned to Harry. "What if Snape found her and cursed her while we're running around? Maybe that's his game – pick us off one by one."

Fortunately, before Harry could reply, the front knocker sounded.

"Thank goodness," Ron growled as he wrenched the door open. "You're two minutes late!"

"Ron," Hermione crossed her arms, "you're supposed to ask for the password before you open the door."

"Shut up and get inside," Ron ordered.

Harry quickly turned to the map, not wanting to witness a scene on the front doorstep of his townhouse. Every since Ron and Hermione had moved in together, they had become much closer to each other, but they also said things to each other that Harry knew they would not have said before, at least not with other people around.

"You'll pay for that," Hermione lightly smacked Ron in the stomach as she walked into the hall.

"Come back on time," Ron told her. He went out the door, shutting it behind him.

"So I'm guessing nothing?" Hermione asked as she began marking off her own streets.

"Nothing," Harry said. "But we might find this time."

However, twenty minutes later, they were all back with no results.

"Right," Harry faced the map. "We've moved out in a circle, six streets out from the house in every direction. Good job on searching every street."

"Thanks," Hermione replied.

"But we have to move out farther," Harry announced. "Keep searching, and let's meet back here in thirty minutes. It's starting to get dark so take your time looking in the alleys."

"Will do," Neville headed for the door.

"Hermione," Ron edged towards her.

"I'll be fine, Ronald," she said, her words slightly clipped.

"You better," he caught her hand.

Something passed between them, as she squeezed his hand, something warm and electric. A second later, they broke apart, but Harry felt like he had witnessed a very private moment. As he went back to the streets, now brushed with twilight, he wondered if he would be like that with Ginny once they were together permanently. A hundred tiny fights that lasted minutes, and then making up without a word. It was something he hoped with everything inside him, every fiber of his now-whole soul.

So involved was he thinking about his best friends that Harry didn't realize he had crossed the already-searched streets and had come onto a new one. This street he felt less familiar with; he had seldom walked on it, preferring to go south when he wandered the city. The buildings on this street looked sad: crooked, old, broken with windows boarded up, pieces of gutter and roof hanging down.

The street had lights, but most were broken, a few bare patches of light on the long stretch of the street. It was getting very dark, and Harry hurried along, his hand inside his pocket, gripping his wand. He saw an alley to the left, a niche that went back a little ways. It looked so small that Harry had already passed it when he heard something move inside.

Whirling around, he approached the dark space, drawing his wand out a few inches. Inside was too dark to see, a void of blackness.

"Anyone there?" Harry asked slowly.

A rustle, then a cat ran out of the alley.

Harry jumped back as it tore by, a streak of black that looked like the darkness moving out of the void. Harry nearly yelled out a hex, but he caught himself just in time. The cat disappeared around another corner, and Harry was about to keep going when he heard a slight groan from the blackness.

Harry glance behind him. No one was on the street, and most the windows were dark. Slipping out his wand, Harry murmured "_Lumos_."

A blue glow appeared at the tip of his wand. The alley filled with blue light.

Harry jerked in horror at what he saw, and his grip on the wand slipped. The light disappeared, the alley cloaked in darkness again. Heart pounding, Harry tried to take a breath, making himself stand still while only wanting to run away.

With every bit of courage left, Harry whispered the spell again, and the blue light glowed inside the tiny alley.

Behind a tumble of boxes, a man lay in rags. One arm was covered in blood, a bruised white face under a mat of dirty hair, festering cuts all over, gaunt limbs stickling at odd angles.

Harry stepped up, but the man's eyes were closed, his face caught in a grimace of pain. But he had been moaning, and even though he wasn't moving, surely he wasn't dead yet.

"Snape?" Harry whispered.

No answer. The tortured man did not move.

"Snape? Snape?" Harry stuck his lit wand in his back pocket and knelt down.

A soft groan escaped the man's bruised, cut lips. His eyes opened the slightest bit, blood-shot around the dark black pupils, and he stared right up at Harry.

"Hell," Snape said between frozen lips.

"You're alive," Harry felt his lips curve up, so happy to find that he wasn't dead, that there was still a chance, still hope.

"You," Snape whispered. "Why – you?"

"I got the message, by the owl," Harry said in a rush. "We're all looking for you."

"Just let me – die," Snape moaned, trying to turn away from Harry.

"Hey!" Harry protested. "Stop that. Just hold on, okay? I'm going to help you. You're not going to die, not here, not like this."

Snape closed his eyes in resignation, but when he opened them, the familiar disgust and hatred was back. "Just like you, Potter, the glorious hero. The precious golden boy."

"Yes, you keep hold of that feeling," Harry told him. "You stay awake, and you concentrate on just how much you hate me."

"Oh, I do," Snape hissed.

"You hate me more than anyone can imagine," Harry said, glancing over Snape. "Hate me so much."

"So much," Snape snarled.

"Is anything broken?" Harry asked. "Your arm? Legs? Ribs?"

"No, you arrogant, spoiled –"

"Worthless," Harry continued the list, "pathetic, horrible," he took off the collared shirt he wore, baring the plain white tee shirt he wore underneath. Immediately, he ripped the nice shirt into strips. "Don't move – hold still. What else? Stupid, daft, brainless . . ."

"Don't forget sneaky," Snape sneered.

"That's right," Harry slowly lifted Snape's arm. "No, no, don't struggle. It's only going to bleed more."

"Oh!" Snape lifted his eyes up to the dark night sky, clenching his teeth in agony as Harry held his arm.

Harry knew it must hurt, but he had to get Snape to concentrate on something, anything, to keep him from passing out from the pain.

"Come on," Harry demanded as he quickly wrapped the rags around the open gashes in the man's right arm. "Hold on, you ugly, greasy, old bat – Snivellus!"

Snape's eyes snapped back to him, angry and ready to fight.

"That's right – Snivellus," Harry made his tone mocking as he hurried with the second strip. "Crying over a little scratch. No wonder my mother left you."

"I'll kill you," Snape hissed. "With my bare hands, you nasty little –"

"Finished with that," Harry set his arm down as gently as possible. He got behind Snape, bracing each knee just behind Snape's shoulders. "You think you can sit up for me or are you too weak?"

"I'll never do anything for you," Snape growled, but Harry already had eased both hands under his shoulders, under his rag-covered arms to give Harry something to hold onto when he tried to pull Snape up. Briefly, he thought about running home to get help, but he didn't want Snape left alone, probably passing out from pain and blood lost.

"Here we go," Harry began pull slowly. He wished he could levitate Snape back to the townhouse, but someone might see.

Snape had put his feet against the cracked pavement to give him leverage to stand, but once Harry started pulling, Snape cried out, "No! Oh, no, please!"

The raw agony in the man's voice tore at Harry, and he felt sick and hot and angry, but he shouted, "I'm not letting you die. Stand up, you piece of slime, get up! Get up or I swear I'll kill you right here and now. Me, James Potter's son, against the pathetic Severus Snape."

As he shouted, Harry pulled against the man with all his might, and to his surprise, Snape actually ended up standing, swaying dizzily, but standing on his own face. Harry immediately ducked under his left arm, bracing Snape against him, pulling the thin man against his own side.

"Seven blocks," Harry whispered. "Just seven blocks. You can make it seven blocks. That's nothing."

Yet, with the first step, Snape's face screwed into an expression of such pain that Harry had to bit his own lip. Snape was a littler taller than he was, but the man was thinner. Harry could feel the ribs under the hand around Snape, skin stretched tight over bare bones.

They limped forward, taking tiny steps. Snape's breathing was short, catching in his throat. Harry felt his eyes pricking with tears, but he stared stoically ahead, refusing to break down even in front of such obviously awful pain.

They made it six blocks, one block from the townhouse. Harry could see the corner of the street where they lived, could see the line of houses that he passed everyday. So close, almost there, and then he felt Snape sag limply against him, deadweight in his arms, as the man's eyes slid shut.

"No," Harry bellowed. "No, Snape, wake up. Come on, we're almost there. Please, just – Ron ! Hermione! Neville!" he shouted as loudly as he could, praying they would hear him. "I found him. Help me!"

No one answered. Snape was drooping in Harry's arms, Harry fighting to keep him from slumping to the pavement.

And then Ron ran around the corner. "Harry!" the redhead yelled. "Harry, hold on – I'm coming."

Ron had just reached him when Neville and Hermione ran from opposite streets, hurrying to help them.

"Oh," Hermione covered her mouth when she got close. "What happened to him?"

"He was lying in an alley when I found him," Harry quickly explained as Ron got on Snape's other side and hoisted him up, positioning his arm just under Harry's on Snape's back. "Neville, can you get his feet? He went unconscious only a few seconds ago. Hermione, I tried to bind his arm –"

"We just need to get him home," Hermione stepped back and cast a spell around them that would make Snape invisible to Muggles. Harry's cries had caused a few people to look out their windows, and one old woman opened her door to tell them to be quiet. Harry knew they must look strange as they carried someone not there, but he hoped no one would stop them.

They made it to the townhouse without trouble, and after giving Luna the password, the three young men carried Snape into the house.

"We need to take him upstairs," Hermione told them. "I'll go lay sheets out on a bed so we can clean him up. Luna, get Kreacher to start heating water."

"Put him in my room," Luna called over her shoulder. "It's closest to the stairs."

"Fine," Hermione clamored up the stairs.

As they slowly carried Snape up the stairs, trying not to his head or any limbs against the wall, they could hear Hermione pulling drawers open and throwing stuff on the table by the bed. Once they got Snape in the room, Hermione pointed to the bed.

"Lay him down carefully. Neville, go look in the medicine cupboard and bring everything you can find. You know what plants are the best for healing. Mix them up. Ron, search every room and bring all the sheets you can find. Start ripping them into strips. Harry, find soap and rags and help Kreacher with the hot water."

"Do you want us to –" Harry motioned to Snape who lay still on the bed.

"No," Hermione shook her head, "Luna will help me. Sorry, but this is woman's work. Someone bring me some scissors. I need to cut his hair to see if he had any head wounds. Harry?"

Hermione looked straight at him, her eyes direct and intense.

"What?" he asked quickly.

"Snape is still a wanted man," Hermione replied. "Only you know the truth. You need to figure out what you're going to do. Tonight."

"I will," Harry nodded before he left the room to find rags.

For the next hour, he toted buckets of water up and down the stairs. Kreacher protested, but Harry told him to keep boiling water. The door to Snape's room stayed closed. Luna opened it every so often, handing Harry a bucket of soiled water, dirty and bloody, and shut the door without a word. One bucket was full of matted hair, and Harry saw some of the pieces were crusted with dried blood.

Neville stayed in the kitchen, cutting roots and herbs and mixing poultices for Harry to run upstairs. Ron sat with him at the table, tearing the sheets and cutting off the loose strings. They worked without talking, hands moving, eyes focused on the task before them.

At nearly midnight, the stairs creaked, and Hermione came in with Luna right behind her.

The three young men froze, Harry shocked for a second at her appearance. Hermione's straight skirt was splattered with blood and dirt, her white shirt now grimy, her hands coated with filth and dried blood.

"We're finished," she announced. "We did all we could. He's sleeping, and it's out of our hands now. But it was so . . ."

She stood in the doorway, fighting against some awful emotion. She closed her eyes, and tears spilled down her pale cheeks. Choking on a sob, she ran for Ron. He stood up, arms open, and a moment later, she was crying into his shoulder, her blood-stained hands gripping him tightly.

Luna looked just as dirty, but she went to sit down beside Ron, her eyes wide in her small face.

"It was terrible," Hermione's muffled voice sounded from Ron's shoulder. "I'd never seen anyone so –" she pulled back to look at Ron. "He'd been tortured, Ron. Not just a little. His neck – where the snake bit him – it was still oozing poison. Someone broke the fingers in his left hand, and they got set crooked."

"We had to strip him," Luna whispered. "He was covered in cuts, too many cuts for one body."

"And some of them weren't new," Hermione's voice was hoarse. "He had old scars, years of scars, purple and red. Is that why he wore those long robes, even the summer? Was he hiding the torture?"

"We wanted to put salve on the cuts and cover them up," Luna kept staring ahead as she spoke. "But there were too many."

"We ended up binding him with the strips of cloth, from head to toe, after washing him and rubbing him down with poultices," Hermione continued, still holding on to Ron. "He didn't wake up."

"He was thin," Luna continued in the same blank tone. "I could count all his ribs. I never knew someone could look so . . . un-human."

"That's it," Hermione nodded fervently at her. "It wasn't human, completely inhuman. All this time, after what Snape did at Hogwarts – Neville, you told us some of the things that happened at Hogwarts. After I heard that, I was glad Snape died."

"Mione!" Ron's eyes opened wide.

"I was," she cried out. "He should have never let those things happen to children, but now –" she burst into fresh tears, retreating into Ron's shoulder again.

Luna looked at Neville, and he scooted closer to her. She leaned her head against his shoulder, and very hesitantly, Neville reached up to brush some hair off her forehead.

Harry watched them, wishing so bad he had someone there for him to comfort, someone to comfort him even.

"All right," Hermione sniffed as she pulled away from Ron, dropping into a seat and blinked to clear her eyes, not wanting to smear her hands over her face. "What now? Harry?"

"What are we going to do with Snape?" Ron asked, standing protectively over her.

"I don't know," Harry confessed. "I know what he's done," with a side glance at Neville, "but somehow I just feel . . . I mean, I know he killed Dumbledore, but Dumbledore made him. And he joined Voldemort, but he tried to leave. And he was so horribly messed up, and my dad was partly to blame, and I just wonder if I should be the one to save him. I keep thinking, it's my fault somehow. It might not be, but what if it is? What do I do with him now? And I know I have to do now."

"And?" Hermione sniffed again.

Harry stood up. "I'm taking a stand here. Right here I'm taking a stand for everything I fought so hard for. I didn't let them kill the Malfoys. And I'm saying right here tonight I'm not letting Snape burn, either."


	6. Chapter 6 Food

AN: Here is another chapter, rather short, but I wanted to capture Harry's feelings before I go on to more action in this story.

Thank you for all the great reviews. I've enjoyed reading every single one of them.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of this.

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The night seemed to drag on forever. Harry opted to sleep on the sofa downstairs, Ron and Hermione were in their room, and Neville had transformed two chairs into a sofa to sleep in the hallway upstairs while Luna took the last bedroom. The townhouse was getting rather full, Harry reflected as he tossed and turned on the sofa. Ron, Hermione, himself, Neville, and Luna and then Draco and then Snape. Seven people under one roof.

Of course, Harry reasoned, at one time past generations of the Black family might have had seven people or more in the townhouse, what with parents, multiple children, and cousins or a spinster aunt. However, that kind of family might have felt the townhouse quite roomy, especially with the parents sharing a room and the small children bunking up together. But seven grown adults, all independent with different schedules and concerns and one under house-arrest and another snuck in at night – they were all doomed.

Harry rolled on his side, trying to think. He only had a few more hours until he had to get up and go to work, just for a half a day since it was Saturday, but he had to sort his thoughts out. He wished he had Hermione's knack for thinking things through logically and calmly. Harry knew he wasn't good at that – he was best in the heat of battle, dodging curses and reacting to danger. In crisis, he always came through. But with the day-to-day living, all its petty trials and chores, he was not exactly good at normal living.

He was damaged.

The thought came to him in the silent darkness, and it began to repeat itself over and over again. He was damaged, he was damaged, he was damaged, damaged, damaged.

"Stop it," Harry whispered to himself. "Just stop. I'm alive – I didn't die. I'm alive, and I'm going to be all right."

He closed his eyes, but he could not sleep.

He wished so bad he had someone to talk to. Ron was great, but he was busy with Hermione and work. Hermione would listen, she always listened, but she looked so sad when she knew he was hurting. He could already hear her "Oh, Harry," and the shadow that came over her face as she watched him. He could not bear her pity.

Neville and Luna both had suffered so much over the last year; Harry would feel pathetic complaining to them. He really wanted Ginny, Ginny lying beside him, listening to his worries in the quiet, black night. But again he would feel ridiculous telling her, _"Oh, by the way, the man that wants to marry you – he's feeling low and depressed all the time. Do you mind listening to him whine for the next few hours?"_ Stupid, stupid, stupid to feel that way, especially when he was supposed to be the great hero.

The clock chimed two, and Harry flopped back on his back. He was so tired, tired of keeping himself together.

That was one thing they didn't tell you about growing up, the fact that you had to always keep yourself together, keep a stoic face no matter how weak and frightened you felt. You had to make money, keep track of a home and lots of possessions, always think about the future, make responsible decisions, and do it all with a calm face and no emotions. Harry knew he had made and acted upon adult decisions for years. Ever since he went after the Stone in his first year, he knew that he would have to behave like an adult, making adult choices that would affect other people beside himself.

Of course, that knowledge seemed easier when he was gearing up to fight evil. It was much less fun and exciting when he had live each boring day like an adult, pretending to be concerned with the bills and the tedious parts of his career. The trials were awful in their own harrowing way, but Harry could not imagine what he would do when the trials ended and they stuck him in a desk in a back office, burying him alive with tedious tasks and paperwork. How did Mr. Weasley do it all these years, going to the office and then going home to a family over and over again, trying to live a safe, responsible life?

Harry wondered if indeed he did have a death wish. Or maybe he had had a death wish, all those years of reckless stunts and rushing into action without thinking. Had he craved the excitement of that life, hating the fear he felt, but hungering for the danger, the way his heartbeat spiked as he raced for his life?

He was damaged.

"Stop it," he commanded. "You're just worn out from this week."

Harry turned again and forced his eyes shut, concentrating on the ticking of the clock, marking each second of the dark night.

------

"All right, look," Harry said as he came into the kitchen the next morning, "we just have to make it through today. Let me go to work and –"

"No, Harry," Hermione told him. "You're tired. You look exhausted and stressed, and I don't think it's good for you to be there today."

"The jury was going to meet to talk about new proceedings," Harry began, but Ron cut in.

"Come on, you can call in sick just today. Really, is it going to make that big a difference? They're just going to vote guilty with or without you."

"Then I should be there," Harry protested, but he knew in the end he would let them persuade him to stay. It was Saturday after all, and he was so tired his bones seemed to hurt.

"Stay here with Luna," Neville urged. "That way you can see about Snape and our prisoner and Luna will be safe. I have to run to Diagon Alley to do some shopping and I haven't seen my parents in forever."

Luna smiled kindly at Neville – she seemed to smile at him at lot ever since she moved in – but she said, "Actually, I was hoping to look for a job today. I could put it off until next week, but if Harry were to stay here today, I could leave without feeling guilty."

"No," Harry said quickly, "don't feel guilty. Go out – I'll be fine here."

"Ron and I are going to visit his family and do some shopping of our own. But before we all go our separate ways,' Hermione grabbed another cup of tea and sat down, "we need to discuss room arrangements, seeing as how we have another person living here."

Harry looked up, sure she was criticizing him, but Hermione seemed completely honest and willing to discuss it.

"I can sleep downstairs," Luna spoke up. "I don't have many things, and if I slept on the sofa in the main room and used the top drawer of the bureau for my clothes –"

"You're not sleeping on the sofa," Neville told her.

"Yeah, it's not comfortable," Harry agreed.

"All right, four bedrooms," Hermione held up her four fingers. "Snape is in the smallest, and let's say that he stays there for the time being, alone. That's one room," Hermione tucked her pinkie finger down, leaving three fingers upright.

"Hermione and I share," Ron put in.

Hermione pulled down her ring finger. "Draco's in one."

"I could room with Draco," Luna spoke up. "That way Harry and Neville could have the last room."

"You're not rooming with Draco," Neville said sharply.

"You're kind to worry, but I promise you that –"

"No, Luna," Neville said, his face and voice stern, "you're not rooming with Draco. You room with Harry, and I'll share with Draco."

"Forget it," Harry said reluctantly. "You and Luna share – I'll room with Draco."

"But –" Luna began, but Harry shook his head.

"No, I'm the one that keeps bringing people home. I should be the one sharing with Draco. You all go on about your day, and I'll get the rooms set up by the time you come back. No, really, this is my house, and I'm going to share with Draco."

"What about Snape?" Ron asked as he glanced towards the clock and started cleaning up his breakfast dishes.

"He'll stay here today," Harry opted. "I don't think he'll be awake for long – but once he feels better, we can decide what to do with him. For now, I'll just keep everything quiet."

"Make sure he eats," Hermione said. "Some strong broth should do, maybe toast later. Don't let him up, and keep him still if you can."

"I can handle Snape," Harry said with a confidence he did not feel. "Let me write a letter to the jury members, and if you could drop it off, Luna –"

"Sure," Luna nodded and skipped off to get paper.

As Harry scribbled down a message, claiming to feel very sick and would they please excuse him for the day, the others began to get ready to leave. Hermione smiled kindly at Harry, Ron clapped him on the back, Luna kissed his cheek as she took the letter, and Neville told him to alert him if anything went wrong. Harry put on a brave face, but once they were all gone, he slumped down at the table and put his head in his hands, leaning over his teacup for a moment of peace.

He had almost dozed off when he heard someone coming down the stairs. A moment later, Draco appeared in the doorway. Draco looked a little better than he had yesterday – his hair was still shorn short, but it was clean, and his face had been scrubbed clean, his cheeks slightly pink. Kreacher followed close behind and pointed to a chair at the corner of the large kitchen table.

"Sit," the house elf ordered, "and Kreacher will find food for our prisoner."

Draco sat down, and Harry looked uncomfortably at his hands. He wanted to leave the kitchen, but that would have seemed weak because it was his house, so Harry just sat there. Kreacher began banging around pots, but Harry felt like he could not talk while Kreacher was there. So they sat in silence.

Kreacher finally slammed a bowl of something mushy and pale in front of Draco. Harry guessed it was porridge, but there were specks of burned grains throughout, and it was probably bland without honey or cinnamon for flavor. But Draco grabbed a spoon and took a huge bite.

He winced (Harry guessed the food was still too hot) and blew over the porridge before spooning into it again. Harry watched as Draco devoured the food, gulping down every bite and scrapping his spoon over the bottom several times before looking up.

"Kreacher," Harry asked, "can you go upstairs and see if – uh, you know?"

Kreacher nodded solemnly, understanding what Harry meant. "If Master needs Kreacher, he will call."

"Yeah, I will," Harry nodded, and Kreacher hurried off.

Harry got up from the table and headed for the stove. "There's more porridge, if you like."

"Yes," Draco said sullenly, refusing to look at Harry.

"Okay," Harry spooned some more porridge into a clean bowl. "Um, I wanted to – well, I mean, last night I didn't say –"

"I get it," Draco said dully. "I'm your prisoner. The house elf gave me a long talk about it – while he was sanding the skin off me. And this morning he said the same thing while getting me scoured and dressed. I can get ready myself – I don't need to be tortured by the house elf."

"His name is Kreacher," Harry said before he could stop himself. "And he's in charge of this house when I'm not here so . . . you know."

Draco's flashed with rebellion for a second, but he said nothing.

"Oh, yeah," Harry went on, "one more thing. Snape's alive."

"What?" Draco's eyes grew big.

Harry put down the bowl of porridge in front him. "Snape's alive. We found him last night. He's upstairs, in bed."

"He's alive?" Draco whispered. "He's alive and he's upstairs? I have to see him."

"No!" Harry objected. "No, not yet. He's badly hurt, and I don't want –"

"I know Snape," Draco stood up. "Snape made an Unbreakable Vow to my mother. I have to see him."

"You can't," Harry told him. "We brought Snape back – we found the Owl asking us for help.'

"His Owl came here?" Draco looked furious. "Then it was probably meant for me. Snape would try to find me before anyone else, and he would never talk to you. So get out of my way, Potter."

Draco put a hand out to push Harry aside, but Draco suddenly fell back against the floor.

Kreacher stood in the doorway, his hand out towards Draco. "The prisoner will not harm Master. For that, the prisoner must be punished."

"Kreacher –" Harry began, but Kreacher had already stalked towards Draco, his ugly little face set.

"The prisoner will respect Master, and for his disrespect, the prisoner will suffer."

"Just put him to work," Harry told the house elf. "Don't hurt him. How's Snape?"

"Still asleep," Kreacher snapped his fingers and a bucket and rag appeared. Kreacher snapped again, and the bucket filled with soapy water. "Now, the prisoner will start to scrub the floor and will clean it well or the prisoner will suffer a most unpleasant day. Kreacher knows many ways to make a wizard squirm and holler, yes, he does."

Harry had already headed for the hall. "Can you bring up some soup for Snape?" Harry asked but did not wait for a reply. He did not want to see Draco forced to get on his hands and knees to clean.

Up the stairs and down the hall, Harry walked very slowly. He knew he did not have to go into Snape's room – Kreacher could take care of Snape until the others got home. But Harry went to the last bedroom door and slowly opened it.

The room was dim, curtains over the windows, but Harry could clearly seen Snape in the bed, covered up with a blanket and a quilt, two pillows under his head. Snape looked better; his face was clean and shaven, and his usual long greasy hair had been cleaned and cut, making him look younger and less bat-like. Harry could see the white collar of the pajama top under the covers, and he tried to imagine what Snape would look like without the sweeping black robes.

Harry approached the bed, and he wondered what he should do, especially since Snape looked asleep. When people were badly hurt were you supposed to wake them up to feed them or should you let them sleep as long as they needed?

Fortunately, he did not have to wonder long for Snape stirred. His breathing changed, and his eyes opened to mere slits before closing again.

"Potter," Snape said, barely more than a whisper.

"Yeah," Harry said, nodding even though Snape could not see.

"I knew it was you," Snape murmured, his eyes still shut

"Really?"

"I can feel arrogance idiocy from a mile away," Snape saod.

Harry felt torn between scoffing angrily and giving a short burst of laughter. At least, he knew the man lying in the bed was Severus Snape.

"We got you to the house," Harry told him. "You fainted on the way here. The girls cleaned you up."

"Girls?" Snape still did not open his eyes or try to move.

"Hermione and Luna. They bandaged you up and got you into bed."

"I suppose I'll have to thank them," Snape tried to sneer, but his face would not move.

"They said you were hurt pretty badly," Harry went on as if Snape had not said anything. He knew it was not the time to start arguing with Snape, not while the man was supposed to be resting. "They said you were all scarred and wounded."

"Is that too much for Potter's precious ears?" Snape hissed.

"No, it's not."

Kreacher came in, holding a tray with a bowl of soup, two spoons, and several bottles that could hold medicine or potions. "Does Master need Kreacher's help?"

"No," Harry said as the house elf put the tray on the nearby table, "I can do it."

"Then Kreacher shall return to the kitchen and see if the prisoner needs help remembering to keep working."

"Prisoner?" Snape croaked as Kreacher left.

"Draco," Harry began unfolding the napkin.

"Draco!" Snape opened his eyes, the black pupils staring straight at Harry.

"I brought him here yesterday. The Ministry wanted to give him the Kiss, him and Narcissa. They wanted to execute Lucius. I convinced them not to."

"Of course, 'Prince Potter'," Snape muttered.

"No, not Prince Potter," Harry felt the bowl to make sure the soup was not too hot. "Just Potter trying to keep more people from being killed. They sent Narcissa and Lucius to Azkaban, but I got them to let Draco come with me. They took his wand, and he's under house-arrest here, but at least he's alive."

Snape watched him with cold eyes. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to feed you," Harry replied, picking up the spoon in his other hand.

"You are not feeding me," Snape growled.

"Can you do it?" Harry asked, his voice short. "If you can raise your hand out of the covers and hold this spoon, I'll let you do it."

Snape glared at him, but said nothing, nor did he move.

"You need to eat something," Harry awkwardly draped the napkin over the covers, under Snape's chin. Harry thought he would rather face ten Dementors than spoon-feed Snape, but he bravely dipped the spoon into the warm broth and tipped it off on the side so it would not drip.

Harry slowly brought the spoon over to Snape, but the man kept his mouth shut, refusing to open it. Snape even looked away from the spoon.

"I can wait all day," Harry announced. "I have nothing else to do. I'm not going to work – I told them I was sick today."

Snape opened his mouth, probably to say something along the lines of "_How dare you play sick?" _or simply "_Truancy_!" Harry took advantage of Snape's outrage to push the spoonful into his mouth. Snape nearly choked on the broth, but he finally swallowed.

Harry pulled the spoon back. "Too hot?"

"I swear, Potter, once I get my strength back –"

Harry pushed in another spoonful. "Just eat the broth."

It was slow going, but Snape reluctantly ate the rest of the soup, one spoonful at a time. Harry felt tempted to match Snape's sneer with his own, even comment on how weak Snape looked, fed like a helpless child by the great hero of the Wizarding world. However, Harry stayed quiet, concentrating on his task.

When the bowl was finally empty, Harry set it aside and reached for the largest bottle and the other spoon. He guessed that Kreacher meant for Snape to take a spoonful from each of the bottle, and Harry poured out the thick, gooey stuff from the first bottle into the spoon. He was about to give it to Snape when the man asked,

"Do you even know what that is?"

"No," Harry admitted, "but Kreacher put it on the tray, so . . ."

"It's amazing you haven't been poisoned yet," Snape looked absolutely disgusted. "Even after the last seven years, you're still an idiot with potions."

"Maybe, but this idiot is giving you your medicine so you can either take a dose of each or _two_ doses of each," Harry told him. He felt a twinge of satisfaction when Snape took the dose and winced at the taste. Harry poured out a dose from every bottle, and Snape seemed to find the each taste revolting. But after he was finished taking the medicine, Harry held up a cup of water which Snape drank from thirstily.

However, the effort of eating and taking the medicines seemed to exhaust Snape, and he leaned back against the pillow with heavy eyelids, straining to keep his eyes open. Harry took off the napkin and pretended to straighten the tray as he said,

"Just go back to sleep. It's still morning – I'll come up with more food later, and everyone will be home this evening."

"I'm leaving this afternoon," Snape told him. "You can't keep me here, and I have no desire to stay with a bunch of goody-two-shoed, smart-mouthed, arrogant children."

Harry waited for more to come, perhaps a long diatribe about how they really were the worst company Snape could possibly imagine, how he would rather be dead than spend a single moment at Black's old home, how he loathed everything about them, but no more came. Harry glanced to the bed.

Snape's eyes were shut, and already he breathed deeply.

"We'll see," Harry countered, glad Snape couldn't reply. "But I think we'll be lucky if you make it to the loo by yourself."

Snape still had not explained how he survived the snake bite or where he had been, but Harry knew the questions would keep until later. Leaving the bottles on the side table, Harry took the tray and headed for the kitchen. He was half-way down the stairs when he heard Draco's protests and Kreacher taunting their "prisoner" in the kitchen.

Though he wanted to go lie on his bed, maybe get some sleep himself, Harry headed for the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about.


	7. Chapter 7 Control

AN: Thanks to Fawkes Song for betaing.

Harry marched into the kitchen to find Draco on his knees, trying to shake off the scrub brushes that had apparently been magically glued to his hands. Kreacher danced around him, snapping a dishcloth at him and ordering him back to work.

"Get them off!" Draco howled. "They won't come off. I don't want scrub brushes for hands."

"All right," Harry began, but Kreacher launched into a tirade, thwacking Draco on the head and shoulders with the heavy dishcloth.

"Now, look what you is done – disturbed the Master. For that, no talking for you so Master is happy."

"Wait," Harry objected before Kreacher could take away Draco's voice. "Let's not do anything too hasty."

"He glued my hands to these," Draco said. "And then –"

"Shut up, Draco," Harry ordered. "Kreacher, find a way to get him to work without hurting him. Draco, you go along with him or – or –"

"Or what, Potter?" Draco raised defiant eyes in challenge. "What are you going to do?"

"I'll ship you off to Azkaban," Harry said, but the threat seemed empty, even to him. He wished he could believe that he was a ruthless leader, but inside he felt hollow.

"You wouldn't," Draco retorted.

In that moment, Harry felt absolutely bare. His pretenses and masks were ripped off, and he felt like a skeleton of uselessness, just a young man without a clue what to do next.

He turned away from the kitchen and started walking. He heard Kreacher snap the towel a few more times before forcing Draco back to work followed by Draco's cries of abject misery at being made to scrub the floor like a servant, but Harry kept moving. He meant to go into the library and bury himself in a book for hours, distracting himself from his feelings until the others got home and he could distract himself with their chatter.

But Harry found himself climbing the stairs all the way back to Snape's room. Snape was asleep, but Harry slipped into a large armchair by the window. He sat watching the street for a while, biting the tips of his fingers and listening to Snape's deep breathing. It felt soothing to sit in the comfort of the quiet bedroom and watch other people bustle around the street, busy with their own lives.

Harry even made up short explanations for why they were on the street: a young woman going to find food to cook for a dinner party, a man on his way to work, two teenagers strolling to the nearest music store. They kept going and coming, chance encounters that brought them into Harry's view-line. If Harry had not been there sitting, he never would have seen them, and there might have never been another time when they would have crossed paths. Just a random occurrence of fate.

Unless, it wasn't random. He made a conscious decision to sit there and watch the people. They made a decision to walk on his street. Was life really random? Or was it orchestrated by something bigger and greater? Was it just people plotting their own courses?

"Harry. Harry!" Snape's voice shot through the room.

Harry lifted his head up, blinking fast. He realized he had fallen asleep and his glasses had slid off. He jerked up in the chair and put the glasses back on.

Snape was in bed, but he fixed Harry with a stern look. "What are you doing in here?"

"It's my house. I can go wherever I like," Harry evaded the question, pretending to straighten his clothes.

"I didn't ask whose house it is," Snape retorted. "I asked why you choose to take a nap in this room when you have other rooms available."

"You don't know that," Harry kept avoiding him. "All the other rooms could be being remodeled or repainted or something. You're assuming something that you don't know for sure. Arrogant of you, isn't it?"

Snape narrowed his eyes. "I suggest you change your tone with me."

"Or what?" Harry stood up and flung his arms out. "What are you going to do to me if I don't? What is anyone going to do to me? What can they do?"

"What is wrong with you?" Snape demanded. "You've gone mad."

"Look at that, Severus Snape finally notices what is right in front of his face," Harry taunted. He wasn't sure what he was saying; his mouth just kept moving of its own accord. "After seven years, the ugly bat finally figures something out. Not the sharpest tool, but we can't blame you for not trying. Give you another seven years, and you might be able to realize another piece of information right in front of your face."

Snape said nothing, just watching him.

"In fact, I'll help you out," Harry marched to the end of the bed. "The war is over, and Voldemort lost. We won, and the trials started, and everything is just as screwed up as it was before it began. I hate it, I hate it, and I can't do a damn thing about it. That's the news, Snape. Now, I want you to try to remember one of those things. Remember two things, and there'll be a special prize for our most special resident."

Harry's voice was dripping with sarcasm when he finally finished, and he stared at Snape, waiting for the man to respond to him. Snape was always good with the insults.

"Come here, Potter," Snape motioned with one thin hand.

Rolling his eyes, Harry went to the side of the bed. Snape would tell him that he was a spoiled, rotten person who was arrogant and selfish and horrible or something insulting like that.

Snape reached out and slapped Harry on the side of his face.

The slap didn't really hurt – Snape wasn't strong enough to do much damage – but Harry froze as he stared down at his former teacher.

"I suggest you get control of yourself or I'll have to reprimand you again," Snape said.

Harry swallowed hard. He knew he could have driven his fist right into Snape's face. He could have beaten Snape to death right there in the bedroom, and no one would ever know. He was ten times as strong as Snape and almost as tall and certainly more powerful magically.

But Harry was not prepared for the rush of relief that flooded over him. Here, in the strangest of places, in the smallest bedroom of his house, from the most unlikely of people came an answer. Control yourself or get slapped again. Control yourself. No discussion, no lengthy argument, no heated debate, just a simple end to his tantrum. Control yourself.

"I'm sorry," Harry said. "I – I shouldn't have said those things."

"What did they do to you?" Snape looked hard at him. "Merlin, you – you're broken."

Tears suddenly filled Harry's eyes. "Don't say that," his voice broke. "Please, don't say that. I'm trying and I can't let him win and I can't –"

"I told you to get a hold of yourself," Snape said. He leaned back on his pillow and frowned at Harry. "If you're going to give way to hysterics, then you might as well leave and come back when you're more composed. I don't have time for your childish antics."

"I'm not childish," Harry blinked away the tears. "I've been fighting for so long and so many people died and –"

"I'm sure those people were glad to give their lives so you could pout for the next few years," Snape observed.

Harry felt so angry he could barely speak coherently. "I am _not_ pouting. Don't you dare suggest I feel anything besides regret and guilt over what happened to them. I did everything I could to protect them. They died anyway."

He crossed his arms, but several tears spilled down his cheeks. Harry wiped them away quickly and then tucked his arms across his chest again, hugging himself tightly.

"This self-pity is not attractive on you," Snape said.

"I am not having self-pity," Harry actually stomped his foot on the wooden floor in uncontrollable rage. "I don't feel sorry for myself, you ugly bastard. If you were well, I would show you just how I feel, but I can't fight a pathetic invalid."

Silence fell over the room as Snape observed him calmly. When the silence grew longer and longer, Harry started fidgeting.

"Say something," he insisted when he couldn't stand it any longer. "Don't just sit there."

"I refuse to discuss anything when you're acting so irrationally."

"Irrational! I'm not irrational. I'm –"

"Potter," Snape's voice, though weak, dipped in a low, stern tone, "that's enough. Go sit in the chair and look out the window until you've gotten yourself under control again."

Harry's eyes went as wide as they could go. "What? You can't order me around like a child."

"Go sit in the chair and calm down. Then we'll finish this conversation."

Harry considered grabbing one of the pillows and smothering Snape with it. Or maybe even hurling Snape out the window to the street below. He would not let Snape order him around.

He meant to stomp out the door and tell Kreacher to let Snape starve himself to death, but Harry actually walked across the room and dropped into the chair. He banged his shoes on the floor as he settled in and he huffed a few times to show how out of sort he felt, but he didn't say anything because he couldn't articulate anything coherent to say.

More than anything, he wanted to lift his head to the ceiling and howl out his frustration like a wild animal until the rage left him, but as he thought that wouldn't impress Snape or prove his calm, logical side, Harry stayed quiet. In his head, he started forming arguments that he would throw at Snape. Reasonable, cogent arguments that made lots of sense and didn't make him seem crazy and made Snape seem like the childish one.

He supposed this was some version of time-out, and while Harry had met plenty of adults that he thought would do well with a time-out, he had never expected that he, himself, would be put in time-out. He was eighteen, for crying out loud. He had fought monsters, he had defeated evil, he had proved himself a hero. Snape couldn't deny that his actions had been heroic, even if his attitude at the moment was a bit . . . stressed.

Several times, Harry almost turned around to tell Snape exactly what he was thinking, but each time Harry lost his nerve and kept quiet.

After what seemed like forever (but was, according to his watch, only twelve minutes), Harry worked up the courage to look at Snape. He was afraid he would find the man glaring back at him with cold black eyes, but instead, Snape lay on the bed, asleep.

Rather than relief, Harry felt guilt again. He had yelled at Snape who was still recovering, Snape who couldn't feed himself that morning.

"Sodding idiot," Harry muttered about himself as he got out of the chair. He tiptoed over to the bed, wondering if he should spread out another blanket in case Snape got cold. But the room seemed warm enough, and Harry crept out, careful to leave the door open a few inches should Snape need something and call out for help.

Downstairs Kreacher had moved Draco into the hallway and was forcing him to scrub the floor with the brushes and a bucket of soapy water.

"All right, Kreacher," Harry said as he carefully stepped over the wet floor. "Another few minutes, and then you're done. Draco can spend some time in the library. Or maybe listen to some music. We have to stay quiet so Snape can get some rest."

"If you hurt him, I'll kill you," Draco threatened.

Harry grabbed the handle of the broom before Kreacher could pummel Draco with it. "Stop saying things that are only going to get you hurt," Harry told Draco. "You are our prisoner for now. Yes, it sucks. Yes, it isn't fair. Yes, you have to suffer under a house-elf. But the more you speak out, the worse you make it for yourself. I'm not going to hurt Snape, seeing as how I was the one who rescued him, and you need to worry about yourself for now."

Draco glared, but didn't say anything.

Harry let go of the broom handle. "Kreacher, after you finish here, can I speak to you in the living room for a while? I want to get an idea of how the household is running. I know you're doing a great job, but we've added so many people that we probably need to talk every few days."

Kreacher beamed. "Of course, Master Harry." He gave Draco a tiny shove to get him to hurry, and Harry went into the living room to wait.

He kept repeating Snape's words in his head over and over again: Control yourself. The answer seemed so easy, but for Harry, Snape might as well have told him to sprout wings and fly to the moon. How could he control himself when bad things happened to people he cared about? How could he control himself when he saw injustice or cruelty? He had become a hero because he had spoken out.

Control yourself. So easy for Snape to say.

And when had Snape ever controlled himself? Maybe in the whole spy thing, but never with Harry. Snape had always been spitting out mean criticisms and threats and angry words every time Harry had done something wrong. And those wrongdoings weren't even that bad . . . mostly. Snape always trying to get him into trouble, Snape picking on him in class, Snape wanting him expelled. Control yourself, Snape!

Yeah, that's what Harry would lead with when he went up to see Snape in a few hours. Here's an idea – control your own sodding self, you miserable excuse for a human being. Yeah, that sounded good and vengeful – turn the tables on Snape and watch him squirm.

When Kreacher finally came in, Harry was feeling very satisfied with himself and wasted no time in demonstrating his satisfaction to his house-elf.

"This is my house, isn't it?" he asked Kreacher.

"Of course, Master."

"And people who don't like me can just leave. Okay, now that we've got that sorted out, let's talk food and supplies. Do you need more money?"

"No, Master is generous with the budget. Master is the best master the world has ever known," Kreacher gave a regal bow. Harry sat a little straighter in his chair. At least someone recognized his worth and potential.

"Well, you tell me when we need more. I don't want anyone scrimping and scrounging for anything here. Even Draco and Snape – they're going to have food and clothes and nice stuff like the rest of us."

"Master is too generous," Kreacher bowed again.

Torn between enjoying his generosity and feeling a little full of himself, Harry nodded graciously. "Thank you. Make sure you have whatever you need. I couldn't run this house without you."

Kreacher beamed at the praise.

Once he left, Harry sprawled across an armchair and began doodling silly drawings over a few blank pieces of parchment. He even drew himself flying right into a tree, and he filled the tree with owls who all wore glasses.

The pang of losing Hedwig hit him, and he sniffed twice as he drew a full-sized owl on the next sheet of paper. He missed her so much, his first friend, the faithful pet that had stood by his side for so long.

He was debating between giving into real tears or busying himself with a book, when Kreacher appeared with a tray of food.

"Mr. Snape needs to eat again," the house-elf said. "Kreacher would be glad to take it up, but Kreacher thinks that Master might want to."

"I'll do it," Harry folded up his drawings and stuffed them into his pocket. Taking the tray, he climbed the stairs and knocked on the door twice before pushing it open, without waiting for an answer.


End file.
